In truth, Ivan was more rattled than he let on, more so than even the "Brahmin" who had just let him walk away. His heart raced, and his hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary. In all the stories he'd read back in his old life, he'd seen countless scenes of people bluffing their way out of sticky situations, borrowing strength from others to mask their own weakness. But this was the first time he'd experienced that skin-prickling anxiety himself.
He had been staring down the barrels of more than a dozen submachine guns, armed with nothing more than a battered old pistol… and a heart stubborn enough to refuse giving in. As he drove, his hand throbbed, blood trickling from the wound that hadn't quite stopped bleeding. The sting reminded him that the effects of the rooster's blood; a charm he'd used to dull pain and enhance his senses, were fading fast. His chest felt tight, pain building again like a rising tide.
His mind raced as he guided the ancient, creaky car through the narrow, unfamiliar streets. He had to find somewhere to hole up, somewhere he could tend to his wounds and get his bearings. But where? In this world, in this city, he had only one real option.
...
Ivan parked outside Zoet, a run-down neighborhood he had come to know all too well. He shut off the engine, climbed out, and made his way toward a place he'd already visited once today: "Freddy's Pasta."
It was six in the evening, the height of dinner rush. He pushed through the door, stepping into a lively scene of workers seated at mismatched tables, sharing plates of greasy meatballs pasta.
But his presence caused an instant shift. The room fell silent as everyone noticed him; blood-streaked, worn, clearly battered from something fierce. For a moment, he stood there awkwardly, painfully aware of how out of place he looked. The customers gawked, utensils frozen mid-air, eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and horror.
Before anyone could react, Freddy appeared, shaking his head as he crossed the room. Without a word, he gripped Ivan by the shoulder and guided him firmly toward the back door. "Alright, alright, enough staring, he's not a circus attraction," Freddy muttered at the gawkers as he passed, pushing Ivan into the narrow, cluttered courtyard where he himself lived.
Once they were alone, Freddy finally let his annoyance spill out. "Damn it, Ivan! I thought our 'goodbye' at noon meant something. Here I was, thinking I'd seen the last of you today." He glanced down at Ivan's bloodied appearance. "Did you run into a stampede?"
Ivan winced, feeling the sting in his chest and the ache in his hand. "Trust me, this wasn't part of my plan either," he replied with a grimace. "Couldn't stay away, though. This time, I might actually need the help."
Freddy's irritation softened, a glint of worry replacing it. "Is everything settled, then? And the injury; how bad is it?"
Ivan gave a tired nod. "Settled, for now. I'll be sore for a few days, but I'll live." He hesitated before adding, "Bruno's dead. Took him down myself. Owens took out Henshaw, guess he turned on Bruno and maybe even the whole Bridgewick gang. I can't say I understand what he's playing at, but it smells like he's aiming for the top spot."
Freddy's eyes went wide, and it took him a moment to process. "You mean to tell me… you weren't just ducking out of sight from the gang?"
"Exactly," Ivan replied, his voice tinged with exasperation. "I thought I was laying low, and then, next thing I know, I'm caught in the middle of their bloody power struggle."
Freddy shook his head, looking around the small courtyard as if the walls themselves might be listening. "This is a bit much, even for you. But fine. I don't want to know the details. Not my business."
With a sigh, he waved Ivan toward a side door. "Come on, I'll clean up a room for you and grab some bandages. You can sleep here tonight, get some proper rest."
Ivan allowed himself a small smile, the tension easing from his shoulders. "That's exactly what I was hoping you'd say."
Freddy led him to a cramped little room, flicking the light switch. The bulb flickered hesitantly before casting a faint, yellowish glow over the shabby interior. Ivan noticed, with a mixture of resignation and dark amusement, a cluster of bedbugs scurrying into the shadows of the wall. Not exactly the penthouse suite, but it would have to do.
"Make yourself at home," Freddy muttered, clearly not expecting gratitude but receiving it in the form of Ivan's exhausted nod. He'd take anything that offered a roof, four walls, and a chance to breathe.
Old Freddy's face was expressionless as he took in the sorry state of the room. Without a word, he grabbed a bottle of insecticide from a dusty shelf, motioning for Ivan to step back. He aimed at the dark corner of the room and sprayed with a vengeance. The room filled with the sharp chemical scent as bedbugs and cockroaches scurried and then stilled, falling into a lifeless pile of black specks on the floor. With a sigh, Freddy took a broom and swept the tiny corpses into the dustpan, muttering under his breath about the unending battles he fought with pests.
Once the room was clear, he began pulling together what he could to make it suitable for sleeping. Old blankets, a sagging mattress, a pillow that had seen better days; all were laid out with an unexpected gentleness. He doused the corners of the room with insecticide once more for good measure, then swept up mouse droppings and whatever remnants of city life had crept into the tiny, neglected space. Finally, Freddy unfolded a new quilt and laid it across the bed, patting it into place as if smoothing the wrinkles could somehow make the bed more inviting.
Under the room's yellowish light, Ivan could barely keep his eyes open. Exhaustion hit him like a wave, and the pain pulsing through his body had grown dull and constant. He felt himself start to sink onto the makeshift bed, his legs giving way as he collapsed into its softness, unable to resist its pull.
Freddy left for a moment, returning with a bucket of warm water and a worn medicine box. He nudged Ivan's foot lightly. "That's about the best I can do here," he grumbled. "Just make do. I'll go whip you up some noodles."
Ivan gave a faint nod, then sat up with a wince and gingerly began washing his wounds with the warm water, the heat seeping into his sore muscles. He unraveled a roll of clean bandages from the box, wrapping his hands and chest as best he could. The fresh wrappings felt cool and soothing against his raw skin.
He glanced around the room, a tiny, chaotic nest that somehow felt like a sanctuary tonight. The sparse furnishings, the cluttered shelves, the cracked walls, it wasn't much, but for now, it was safe.
A few minutes later, Freddy returned, carrying a bowl of steaming stir-fried noodles topped with shredded pork and a couple of slices of luncheon meat. "Eat slow, there's more in the pot if you're still hungry," he said, setting the bowl into Ivan's hands.
Ivan took the bowl gratefully, the steam rising and warming his face. As he poked around with his chopsticks, he noticed three perfectly cooked poached eggs nestled at the bottom of the noodles, their yolks glowing warmly. The unexpected kindness nearly broke him; his eyes prickled with a sudden, surprising wave of emotion, and he blinked to hide the moisture gathering there.
...
Later, as night fully settled over the city, Ivan lay on the makeshift bed, his thoughts tangled and restless. He pulled out a small notebook and flipped to a recipe he'd obtained earlier:
[Strong Hard Skin Hardener]
Rating: 1D
Materials Required: Alchemical matrix x1, sulfur x1, calcium x1
Description: A potion recipe left by the Honey Badger (Beast) wizard. A thick brown liquid taken orally, it temporarily hardens the skin, providing enough resistance to deflect small-caliber bullets.
He studied the recipe in the dim light, mind racing with ideas on how he could gather the ingredients. In the dead silence of the night, the only sounds came from a distant radio down the street, crackling with black rock music that spilled into the alley.
Old Freddy had stayed up with him for a while, sharing a smoke and some idle chatter, but had long since retired to his own bed. Now Ivan was alone with his thoughts, contemplating his next move. His position in Bridgewick had become tenuous; the gang knew he was a threat now, and he couldn't risk staying here indefinitely. The city was becoming a powder keg, and he was too close to the fuse.
No, he'd have to leave and soon. The question was where. He'd been planning on heading south to the United States, and after some thought, he settled on a destination: Saint Francisco, or, as it was often called, "Golden Gate City."
The decision felt solid, like a small anchor amidst the chaos. He closed the notebook, allowing himself to drift into a light, uneasy sleep, his mind whirling with thoughts of new beginnings and fresh dangers in a city that held the promise of opportunity... and trouble.
For now, all he could do was rest and prepare for whatever lay ahead.