Hemlock led the way without looking back. He moved with purpose, cutting through the streets of Hamone City like he'd walked this exact route a hundred times before. Kenta followed a step behind, hands tucked loosely into his sleeves, his pace unhurried as always. Behind them, the group of women stayed close together, their movements quieter now, more cautious. The noise of the main city slowly faded the further they went.
The crowds thinned first. Then the shops. Then the guards. Before long, the streets themselves began to change. The stone beneath their feet was cracked and uneven. Buildings lost their color, their polish, their life. Windows were boarded up or shattered entirely, doors hanging crooked on rusted hinges. The air felt heavier out here, still and stale, like nothing had moved through it in years.
Kenta's gaze drifted across the surroundings as they walked. Collapsed rooftops. Broken signs swaying faintly in the breeze. An overturned cart left to rot where it had fallen.
"What is this place?" Kenta asked finally, his voice cutting through the quiet.
Hemlock didn't slow.
"West side," he said. "Or what's left of it."
Kenta glanced at him, then back out at the empty streets.
"Doesn't look like much of a 'side' of anything."
"Yeah," Hemlock muttered. "That's kind of the point."
They turned down another narrow path, this one even more secluded than the last. The buildings here were larger, but in worse condition. Long stretches of brick walls ran alongside them, broken up by rusted metal doors and shattered windows that led into dark, hollow interiors.
"According to the old-timers," Hemlock went on, "this place used to be the busiest part of the city."
Kenta raised an eyebrow slightly.
"Hard to believe."
"Halson Trading Group," Hemlock said. "Ever heard of them?"
Kenta shook his head once.
"Nope."
"Didn't think so," Hemlock replied. "They owned everything out here. Factories, warehouses, distribution routes. Half the city worked under them at one point."
Kenta let out a quiet hum as his eyes moved over a massive, crumbling structure they passed.
"Guess that didn't last."
"No," Hemlock said flatly. "It didn't."
They walked in silence for a few steps before he continued.
"Syndicate moved in. Started digging their claws into the city. Took control of trade, routes, and people. Everything."
His tone hardened just slightly.
"The Halson family didn't fight it. Didn't try to compete. They saw what was coming, took their money, and got out as fast as they could."
Kenta glanced at him again.
"Smart."
"Yeah," Hemlock said. "Left all this behind."
He gestured vaguely around them.
"And now it's just a graveyard. Vagrants, drifters, and people with nowhere else to go."
Kenta nodded once, taking that in. His gaze lingered on a collapsed factory ahead, its frame barely holding together. Then he spoke again.
"So why bring us here?"
Hemlock didn't answer right away. Instead, he slowed. Then stopped. Kenta came to a halt beside him, the group behind them pausing as well. Hemlock turned slightly and raised a hand, pointing forward. Kenta followed the gesture. A large building stood just ahead.
Three stories tall. Wide. Heavy brick walls stained with age and neglect. The sign above the entrance had long since fallen, leaving only rusted brackets behind. The windows were broken, some boarded, and others left open to the elements. The massive double doors at the front were shut, but barely intact.
Kenta stared at it for a moment. Then raised an eyebrow.
"A dilapidated textile factory?"
Hemlock smirked faintly.
"Not just any dilapidated textile factory."
Before Kenta could respond, Hemlock stepped forward, grabbing one of the doors and pulling it open with a loud, dragging creak. Dust stirred immediately, drifting through the air as the interior revealed itself. Dark. Empty. Silent. Hemlock didn't hesitate. He stepped inside. Kenta let out a quiet sigh.
"Of course it's something like this."
He followed. Behind him, the women exchanged brief glances before moving in as well, sticking close together as they crossed the threshold. The air inside was cooler.
Their footsteps echoed faintly across the wide, open floor. Rows of old machinery sat abandoned, covered in dust and rust, frozen in time. Fabric scraps still clung to some of the equipment, brittle and faded.
Hemlock walked straight ahead, weaving through the space like he knew exactly where he was going. Then, without breaking stride, he reached out and flipped a switch on one of the support beams. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, a low hum. Lights flickered overhead. One by one, dim industrial lamps sputtered to life, casting a dull yellow glow across the factory floor. It wasn't bright, but it was enough. Kenta's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked around.
"Huh," he muttered. "Still got power."
"Backup system," Hemlock said. "Old, but it works."
They kept moving. Kenta glanced at him.
"So what's the deal with this place?"
Hemlock let out a small breath through his nose.
"Hanko."
Kenta's expression didn't change.
"That guy?"
"Yeah," Hemlock said. "Before he got strong and before he became a captain, he was always a bit of a deviant."
Kenta snorted quietly.
"Such shocking news."
Hemlock ignored that.
"He didn't like fighting. Didn't like risk. Every time things got bad, he ran."
They reached the far end of the factory now, where the machinery thinned out and the walls closed in.
"He had a go bag," Hemlock continued. "Always packed. Always ready. Just in case his personal doomsday hit."
Kenta tilted his head slightly.
"Sounds about right."
"Once he got stronger," Hemlock went on, "he didn't need it anymore. Or at least he acted like he didn't."
He stopped walking. Turned.
"But that part of him never went away."
Kenta watched him.
"That cowardly scoundrel," Hemlock said. "was always still in there. Just buried under all that arrogance."
He stepped toward a section of the wall that looked no different from the rest. Then reached down. His hand brushed against something hidden just beneath a layer of debris. He cleared it away, revealing a small, almost invisible latch. Kenta's eyebrow lifted again.
"Well, that's interesting."
Hemlock pulled it. A quiet click echoed. Then a section of the floor shifted. A hidden hatch slowly lifted upward, revealing a dark opening beneath. A staircase. Kenta let out a low whistle.
"What do we have here?"
Hemlock smirked faintly.
"Like I said," he muttered. "Not just any factory."
Without waiting, he started down. Kenta followed. The women hesitated for half a second before Beatrix stepped forward first, steady despite her injury.
"It's alright," she said softly. "Stay close."
One by one, they descended. The air changed as they went down. Cooler. Cleaner. Less stale. Then, light. Bright, steady light. Kenta stepped off the final stair and stopped.
The space opened up into a large underground room. Fully furnished and remarkably clean.
Shelves lined the walls, stocked with preserved food, water, and supplies. Beds were arranged neatly along one side, blankets folded. A small kitchen area sat in the corner, alongside crates filled with tools and equipment. Ventilation shafts hummed softly overhead.
It was comfortable. More than that. It was prepared. Kenta's eyes moved slowly across everything.
"This guy really thought of everything."
Hemlock stepped past him, spreading his arms slightly like he was presenting it.
"Welcome," he said dryly, "to Hanko Demitri's personal doomsday bunker."
There was a pause. Then Kenta let out a quiet breath.
"I take back every doubt I had."
The tension in the room shifted. Slowly. The women stepped further in, their movements cautious at first. But as they looked around. Something changed. Relief was written on their faces.
Beatrix moved ahead of the others, her steps slow but steady as she ran a hand along one of the shelves.
"It's safe," she whispered.
Others followed. Checking beds. Opening containers. Some sat down, like their legs had finally given out after everything. Kenta, meanwhile, wandered. His gaze drifted lazily across the space until—
He stopped. A shelf. Not food. Not supplies. Bottles. Rows of them. Wine. Liquor. Spirits of all kinds. Kenta's eyes lit up instantly.
"You've gotta be kidding me."
He walked over, grabbing one without hesitation. Then he turned and immediately smacked Hemlock on the back. Very hard.
"Ha! This place is perfect!" Kenta said, grinning. "Man, I'm sorry for ever doubting you."
Hemlock stumbled half a step forward.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Glad it meets your standards."
Kenta popped the cork with a quick flick, taking a sip like he hadn't just leveled a building an hour ago.
"Oh yeah. This is good."
For a moment, things felt lighter. Kenta's expression shifted slightly as he lowered the bottle. His eyes moved. To the women. They were settling in now. Talking quietly. Some are even smiling. Then back to Hemlock.
"I do have one concern."
Hemlock glanced at him.
"Yeah?"
Kenta tilted the bottle slightly in his hand.
"Who else knows about this place?"
The question hung in the air. The hum of the bunker suddenly got louder.
"And..." Kenta continued, his tone quieter now, more serious, "...how long are they actually safe here?"
Both of them looked toward the group. Beatrix was helping one of the others sit down, speaking softly to her. For a moment, Hemlock didn't answer. His eyes narrowed slightly as he thought. Then he exhaled.
"That's a good question."