The late afternoon sun seeped ruthlessly through the gaps in the window's frayed fabric, landing directly on Ian's closed eyelids.
He groaned, deeply disturbed by the sudden intrusion on his slumber. Every muscle in his body protested; he didn't want to let go of the soft bed or the ambient warmth of the room.
Wait.
A bed? Soft?
And a warm room?
His survival instincts instantly fired on all cylinders.
He woke up abruptly, bolting upright in a messy bed piled high with discarded clothes. His eyes rapidly scanned the square-shaped room.
It wasn't particularly spacious.
Leftover food wrappers and rusted, scattered cans littered the floor like landmines.
The foul, rancid odor emanating from some of the long-abandoned food—now completely furred over with thick mold—didn't bother him much. His sense of smell had long since grown accustomed to the stench of decay.
He suspected, with a mounting wave of disgust, that this was the flat Bartwin had granted him as part of their deal. It was completely abandoned.
How incredibly stingy, you old, haggard bastard.
The furniture was in absolute disarray, coated under a suffocating layer of grey dust. It was obvious this apartment had been hastily deserted by its previous occupant.
Hurriedly vacated, I suppose, Ian thought, tracing his fingertips through the grime to analyze the thickness.
Or maybe the owner knew they wouldn't be returning here alive, so they didn't bother cleaning up? Bartwin was the legal owner of this entire block, and Ian's mind instantly conjured all sorts of dark, violent scenarios that could have befallen the previous tenant under the loan shark's thumb.
On the bright side, this was officially their new sanctuary—his, Roe's, and Josh's. They would finally crawl out of that wretched, freezing sewer for good.
His stomach growled fiercely, a reminder that he had slept clear through the day. The position of the late afternoon sun bleeding through the west-facing window signaled that evening was fast approaching.
Roe must be worried sick. I need to track him down first before I even think about finding food.
Ian turned to leave the flat, but his hand froze just inches from the doorknob. A single metal key hung from a small hook on the back of the wood.
Hey... is this what it actually feels like to hold a house key? Very strange...
Exercising deliberate caution, he stepped out, pulled the door shut, and turned the mechanism.
Click.
Who knew the simple sound of a turning deadbolt could be this beautiful? Ugh, I'm such a pathetic dork. But I guess that luxury is only obvious to those who have never known what a home is.
He slipped the key safely into his right trousers pocket. As he began to walk down the hallway, he realized he wouldn't be surprised if people on the street assumed he was nursing a permanent injury; after hours of high-stakes simulation, his right leg felt heavy, stiff, and utterly exhausted.
Wait, why am I being so incredibly stupid? This building structure looks way too familiar. Ian paused briefly on the landing of the central staircase, a sudden chill washing over him. This time, he descended the steps with slow, deliberate care.
The moment he hit the ground floor, reality struck. He recognized the faded wallpaper of the lower room. He recognized the neatly displayed, eclectic assortment of antiques arranged in the first-floor display cases. He recognized the dusty cashier's desk where a person would normally sit to grease the wheels of commerce.
Fuuuuuuk... Bartwin is utterly ruthless.
Just as he had allowed himself to taste a fraction of genuine joy, reality delivered a brutal slap to his face. He finally realized exactly whose apartment he was occupying: he was living on the upper floor of Ted's old living space.
Of course. Bartwin's sick, twisted sense of humor was exactly that cruel.
Taking a deep, stabilizing breath, Ian forced himself to compartmentalize his rapidly souring mood. He had just been feeling incredibly grateful, and he refused to let the ghost of a dead man ruin his leverage.
Arriving at the mouth of the familiar Mayhem Road alley, Ian executed a sharp turn, heading directly toward the storm drain that had served as his and his friends' subterranean home. Out of sheer habit, he scanned the surrounding streets to ensure no one was tracking his movements before he dared to approach the heavy iron manhole.
The reasoning was simple: they didn't have a padlocked key to secure a city manhole, so they had to maintain absolute secrecy to prevent predatory locals from stealing the meager valuables they left behind while they worked the streets.
He hoisted the heavy iron cover, slipped his body into the dark, familiar shaft, and slid down the rungs.
"Who the hell is that?!" a voice barked harshly from the shadows below. Even though Ian had only been absent for a mere forty-eight hours, the sheer, paranoid hostility in the reaction felt wildly exaggerated.
"Calm down, Josh. It's just me."
"Iaaan!!!" Roe's voice shouted from the gloom, instantly stepping forward to welcome him.
The sewer was pitch-black, save for the faint light bleeding from the shaft.
"Why didn't you guys turn on the lantern?" Ian asked, his eyes straining.
"Oh, Ian, you have absolutely no idea what happened last night after you failed to come home," Roe responded, his voice trembling with residual anxiety.
"What do you mean? What happened?"
"A group of completely unknown people came looking for you last night," Roe explained rapidly. "They barged right into our sector and completely ransacked our entire dwelling. I don't even know what they were looking for, Ian! Did you get yourself tangled up with the wrong crowd? I was waiting for you to come home triumphant after the score, but you just completely vanished!"
"Were they Bartwin's enforcers?" Ian demanded, his brow furrowing.
"No! I know Bartwin's thugs on sight. I would have recognized them," Roe insisted. "These people were entirely different—professional, heavily coordinated, and completely organized. By the way... they explicitly demanded your presence the moment we cross paths with you again."
Josh's voice cut through the dark, heavy and raspy from the illegal, chemical smoke he frequently inhaled. "What the hell did you do, Ian? You violated our ultimate code of ethics. Our sanctuary isn't a secret anymore."
"I swear to God, I never uttered a single word about this sector to anyone," Ian defended himself, his hands raising in the dark. "But somehow, they tracked it down on their own."
"And who exactly are these 'they' you keep referring to?" Josh pressed, stepping closer.
"Bartwin's people," Ian muttered.
"With these useless, short answers, you aren't explaining a damn thing to us, Ian."
Ian let out a long, heavy sigh. He turned slightly toward Roe. "So... Roe, do I have your permission to talk to Josh about the cash?"
"Mm, it's entirely up to you," Roe answered, shrugging his shoulders in resignation.
"What cash?!" Josh exploded, his temper flaring red-hot in the darkness. He felt completely alienated, deeply insulted at being treated like an outsider—especially since, among the three of them, he was the oldest. "You mean to tell me that when you guys actually secure a massive bag, you keep it entirely quiet, but the second the sky falls, 'we' have to bear the violent burden together?! What kind of fucked-up friends are you?!"
A heavy wave of mutual guilt washed over Ian and Roe. But their reasoning had been entirely sound: telling Josh—who possessed a relentless, self-destructive penchant for blowing every single cent they made on highly illegal substances—was never a smart operational decision.
"Calm down, Josh. Look, we just didn't want you to evaporate the entire cut on your chemical habits," Ian tried to reason, keeping his tone placating.
"Oh, but it's totally fine if you go and lose it all on some rigged gambling table?!" Josh accused, expertly cornering him in the argument.
Roe's voice cracked with a sudden, desperate realization as he looked at Ian. "Is that true, Ian? Is the money completely gone?"
"Hey, will both of you stop jumping to catastrophic conclusions before I actually have a chance to lay out the entire timeline?" Ian shot back, defending his ground.
"Fine," Josh threatened, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "But you start from the absolute beginning and take us to the very end. If we catch you hiding a single detail from us again, we are cutting ties. We refuse to sink into the mud with you."
"Josh, back off! Don't be so damn hard on him," Roe interjected, firmly defending Ian. "Have a shred of compassion. He clearly went through something horrific to be completely off the grid for two days."
Ian felt a genuine pang of gratitude toward Roe. Steeling his nerves, he began to recount the entire sequence of insane, near-fatal events that had transpired from the exact moment he took Roe's money and left the sector. As his eyes gradually adapted to the absolute blackness of the storm drain, he could faintly make out the shifting expressions on his friends' faces.
By the time Ian finished his harrowing tale, the silence in the sewer was deafening. Roe stood entirely frozen, his mouth gaping open, finding the existence of a lethal, digital system beyond the realm of human belief. Josh, on the other hand, merely folded his massive arms tightly across his chest, his face etched with pure, hardened skepticism.
"Are you seriously spinning this elaborate sci-fi fairy tale just so Roe won't demand his fifteen grand back?" Josh remarked dryly. "Because if so, I have to admit, your creative writing skills are incredibly convincing."
"No, Josh! I swear on my life, it's all real! Oh, thank God, I actually brought the physical proof in case you two pulled this exact stunt," Ian said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the metal chain, letting the flat key clink loudly against the dark iron.
"Wow... is that an actual house key?" Roe gasped, eagerly snatching the shiny object directly out of Ian's hand to inspect it.
"Yes. And to prove it to you both, we are packing up and moving into the flat tonight. My entire purpose for coming down here was to pull you both out of this hole. Oh, and I am absolutely starving. Let's get some real food. My treat!"
Roe and Josh exchanged a rapid, silent glance before shouting in perfect, ecstatic unison, "Let's go!"
Roe enthusiastically began shoving his meager worldly belongings—which amounted to almost nothing—into a single, large black garbage bag. Josh, who owned even less, entrusted his few possessions to Roe's plastic sack.
Josh hoisted the heavy bag effortlessly with one hand.
Upon reaching the iron ladder, the trio cast one final, parting glance at the putrid, freezing drain that had sheltered them for years. They climbed out into the evening air, setting a direct course for their absolute favorite Chinese establishment to celebrate.
The culinary offerings at the restaurant weren't particularly high-quality or delicious, but the elderly owner was incredibly warm-hearted, always welcoming them with open arms. It was a stark contrast to the upscale establishments in the commercial district that routinely looked down on them with disgust—even though the boys always paid for their meals in full, hard cash just like any other customer.
Mr. Cheng greeted them with his signature, radiant warmth the moment they crossed the threshold, his eyes squinting briefly at the massive, ominous black bundle Josh was carting around.
"You boys didn't happen to bring a dismembered corpse inside that bag, did you?" Mr. Cheng joked, his booming laugh echoing through the dining room.
The three of them let out an awkward, tight chuckle. "Wasn't that entirely obvious, Sir?" Josh interjected, leaning into the dark humor. "We figured that was the hidden, operational purpose of your establishment, wasn't it? To help the local street youth dissolve the evidence?"
Mr. Cheng's smile instantly vanished, his face freezing up.
"Ahem! We're actually in the middle of a major relocation, Sir," Ian chimed in quickly, smoothly steering the conversation away from Josh's terrible optics. "We came here tonight specifically to celebrate a massive step toward a vastly better life. What's the house special on the menu tonight?"
Mr. Cheng's eyes instantly lit up with genuine joy once more. "Oh, I am absolutely thrilled to hear of your success! Wonderful! Let me personally prepare the most comfortable booth in the house for my champions! Tonight's special is a fresh, wok-tossed octopus stir-fry! Or perhaps you would prefer our traditional fried noodles? In China, fried noodles are an absolute structural must-have when celebrating a new milestone!"
Instantly imagining the horrific, writhing shape of a thirteen-meter giant squid and the serrated suckers of the digital arena, all three of them vigorously shook their heads in a synchronized panic.
"Fried noodles," they blurted out in unison. "We'll definitely take the fried noodles."
There weren't many patrons inside Mr. Cheng's establishment tonight. In fact, there was only one other customer, a individual who had slipped through the front door unnoticed right after their arrival.
The man was dressed in a sharp, immaculately tailored reddish-purple suit. He sat perfectly calm in a corner booth, quietly reading an old, dog-eared magazine provided by the house. Ian tracked the stranger's precise movements out of the corner of his eye. His street-honed instincts immediately concluded that this individual was categorically not a regular customer of Mr. Cheng's kitchen. There was nothing but a single, untouched glass of water resting on the table in front of him.
Furthermore, Ian noticed a deeply unsettling detail: Mr. Cheng hadn't even approached the man to offer a menu, and there wasn't a single sound of activity or clinking pots emanating from the kitchen behind the counter. A thick, eerie, and suffocating atmosphere began to linger heavily in the room.
"Roe, Josh," Ian whispered, his voice dropping to a barely audible frequency. "Get up. We need to leave. Right now."
"Why, Ian?" Roe replied, his face falling into a mask of sudden disappointment. "Did you just realize you lost your wallet or something?"
"Shush. Shut up. No," Ian hissed, his gaze fixed forward. "We're being targeted. We're the marks."
Roe's face twisted into an expression of shock, his eyes darting frantically as he noticed Ian's left eye twitching pointedly toward the suspicious man in the purple suit.
"Of course, you're far too clever to be fooled by basic staging, Ian Worth," a voice echoed smoothly throughout the quiet restaurant.
The man in the reddish-purple suit spoke with an elegant, flawless cadence. He politely folded the magazine in his hand, placing it back into its designated slot on the rack with mechanical precision. Then, he rose and walked toward their booth. He extended a manicured hand, resting it firmly against the edge of Ian's wooden table, effectively blocking his only avenue of escape.
If Bartwin's grotesque, scarred appearance alone was enough to make hardened street criminals wary, this individual operated on an entirely different level of terror. He appeared to be in his early 40s, boasting a handsome, symmetrical face, sharp jawline, and a thoroughly charming, disarming smile.
But the moment the man locked eyes with him, the hairs on the back of Ian's neck stood completely on end. A single, cold word rang out like a siren inside his head.
Predator.