Zughaib's hands gripped the steering wheel of the stolen convertible as he cruised down *Cadona Street, the cool evening air whipping through his buzzcut hair. The car's engine purred beneath him, a sleek beast that gave him a temporary sense of freedom, though his mind was far from at ease. The events of the past few hours lingered in the back of his mind like the shadow of a storm—his unsettling meeting with Orwen, the shady deal with the van, and the flash of Zaid and the woman in the indigo dress. It all felt like a web tightening around him, every thread pulling him deeper into something he didn't fully understand.
As the car glided through the narrow streets, his pager buzzed against his leg, snapping him out of his thoughts. He glanced down at the small screen, his brow furrowing in curiosity. It was an unknown memo. The message was simple but carried a weight that tugged at him:
"Meet me at Marlin's Tavern."
Zughaib sighed and rolled his eyes. The anonymity of the message and its abruptness wasn't unusual in his line of work, but it still grated on him. Whoever sent it clearly expected him to follow through without question. And whoever it was, they had found him again. He shrugged and tossed the pager onto the passenger seat, shifting gears as he pressed the pedal down. The convertible roared to life, and he sped down the street, weaving between traffic with a practiced ease.
As he passed a red light, his sharp eyes caught sight of a cop car parked off to the side, its occupants sitting lazily as they waited for something more interesting than a passing convertible. For a brief moment, tension tightened in Zughaib's chest, but instead of following, the cop car turned right, disappearing into a side street.
He exhaled slowly, relief flooding his system. The last thing he needed was the cops sniffing around his business. With his path clear, Zughaib continued his drive toward Marlin's Tavern, the dim lights of the city washing over him in a soft blur.
---
Marlin's Tavern was as rough and tumble as they came, a dive bar that catered to those who preferred to keep their dealings in the dark. The place was packed, the sound of clinking glasses, low conversations, and an old jukebox playing forgotten hits filling the smoky air. The dim lighting and the haze of cigarette smoke made it hard to see across the room, but Zughaib spotted his target almost immediately.
Orwen sat at a corner booth, the faint glow of the overhead lamp illuminating his sharp features as he swirled a glass of scotch. He was calm, composed, and completely out of place in the seedy establishment, dressed in the same crisp suit that marked him as someone who didn't belong in a place like this. But then again, Orwen never did fit into the typical mold.
Zughaib walked over and slid into the booth opposite Orwen, his body language casual, but his eyes sharp and wary. Neither man spoke for a moment, the silence between them stretching as the noise of the tavern swirled around them. Orwen sipped his scotch, his eyes never leaving Zughaib's.
Finally, Orwen broke the silence. His tone was formal, almost detached. "You did well, Zughaib. The delivery went off without a hitch."
Zughaib shrugged, not letting the compliment sink in. He wasn't interested in Orwen's approval.
Orwen took another sip of his drink. "You handled it better than most would have. You might be more useful than I thought." His voice held a strange mixture of pride and calculation, as if Zughaib was just another tool in his elaborate game.
Zughaib leaned back in his seat, his eyes narrowing.
Orwen's smile faltered slightly, and he sighed, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "The van you were driving contained BIF's secret items transport. Classified materials. It's all part of the bigger picture, one you're only starting to glimpse."
He leaned in, his voice lowering as he continued, "Unfortunately, Anarchy found out about it. They've been trying to intercept those items for weeks. DARKCON is also in the mix, as I'm sure you've noticed. Such a demissive group Anti-Countermercs decided to cause trouble to our transport and caused harm to our 'former' agents, thus I saw you as a benefactor to make you drive in such a hasty situation and also to know whether you're capable of such errands... which you already are by proving it."
Zughaib didn't flinch, though the mention of DARKCON sent a familiar chill down his spine. He was growing tired of hearing about them without ever fully understanding the scope of their power.
Orwen's eyes darkened as he continued. "I was at the morgue, watching from the black minivan. One of the graverobbers you encountered... well, he wasn't just any thief. While the two others store the corspe into the black station wagon the other graverobber, who I assume is no graverobber... busted into the morgue backdoor and found 'Scornhead' restrainted on a chair on a hook, that 'robber' ate and decapitated 'Scorehead' with no mercy."
Zughaib's breath hitched, though he kept his expression neutral. The image of the decapitated body flashed in his mind, a grotesque reminder of how deep this rabbit hole went.
Orwen smirked, clearly amused by the reaction he elicited. "Yes, cannibalism. We've traced him to a known offender who goes ny the name Jones Willambard, he was a drug addict, who has been tripped into joining a cultist group. Scornhead was the treasurer of a small gang which plays out as hired guns for the cultist.You're lucky the police didn't link that little incident directly back to you."
Zughaib's grip on the edge of the table tightened, his knuckles whitening.
Orwen dismisses the tension in Zughaib's voice with a wave. "Relax. I know you weren't. But it's a mess that has to be cleaned up, and it's only a matter of time before this all spirals out of control."
Zughaib's eyes flicked to the pager out of his pocket, the outdated device suddenly feeling like a relic. As if reading his thoughts, Orwen chuckled again. "Still using a pager, are we? That won't do."
He reached into his suit jacket and produced a sleek, black device—a PDA, the latest in secure communication technology. He slid it across the table toward Zughaib.
"Take it. You'll need better tools if you're going to keep up with what's coming."
Zughaib stared at the PDA for a moment before picking it up. It was cool to the touch, compact, but with the weight of something more dangerous. He slipped it into his jacket pocket without a word.
Orwen leaned back, his smirk fading into a more serious expression. "I'll be asking for more favors soon, Zughaib. Consider this the beginning of a much longer relationship."
Without waiting for a response, Orwen downed the rest of his scotch and stood up, straightening his suit as he prepared to leave. Zughaib watched him walk out of the tavern, disappearing into the night like a ghost.
---
The drive back to the complex was quiet, the streets mostly deserted as the night deepened. Zughaib's mind churned with everything Orwen had said, every piece of the puzzle slowly starting to come together. DARKCON, Anarchy, the BIF—it was all connected, but the picture wasn't clear enough yet. All he knew was that he was trapped in the middle of it, and there was no easy way out.
When he pulled into the complex parking lot at Asiaville, his eyes immediately caught the harsh stares from a group of Asian men standing near the entrance. Their faces were hard, filled with barely concealed hatred. Zughaib's gut tightened as he realized he recognized one of them—the same doorman who had accosted him before.
He ignored their glares as he made his way toward the stairs, but the tension was palpable. As he reached the top of the stairs and approached the door to Zaid's apartment, his heart sank. An eviction notice was plastered to the door, the bold letters practically screaming at him.
Before he could process it, he felt the presence of the Asian men behind him. They had followed him up, surrounding him in a tight semicircle, their faces cold and unyielding. The doorman stepped forward, his voice low and dangerous.
"Your time here is up," he hissed. "You and your brother. You've brought nothing but trouble. You're being evicted... and you've got a hitmark on you, in case you didn't know.". The balding doorman showcase a removed wanted poster of his potrait and the text 'Not dead, if alive, 500,000$ is rewarded.
Zughaib's eyes flicked the poster on his hand, then to the men surrounding him. His pulse quickened, but his face remained calm.
This wasn't just an eviction—it was a warning. And things were about to get a lot more dangerous.