The rain was relentless, hammering down on Iron City with a kind of vicious intensity that felt deliberate, almost personal. Luka kept close to the walls as he moved through the labyrinth of narrow alleys, each step swallowed by the thick, slick pavement. Even the sound of his footsteps seemed to stretch, hanging in the air a beat too long, as though the city were listening.
The shadows were deeper tonight, clinging to the buildings like oil, shifting in ways that felt unnatural, almost alive. Iron City felt more than just dark—it felt aware.
He caught a flash of movement reflected in a cracked storefront window—a silhouette, there one second, gone the next. Luka's heart didn't skip a beat, his training keeping him calm and focused, but instinct flared—a primal survival instinct, sharpened by years of danger. Tonight, it felt raw, pressing on him with an urgency he couldn't ignore. Whatever lurked in these alleys wasn't something his experience alone could prepare him for.
He stopped briefly, scanning the deserted street behind him, but saw nothing out of place. Just the ceaseless rain, trickling down broken gutters, and the neon signs bending like distorted ghosts in the mist.
Still, tension coiled in his gut, that persistent sense of being tracked, of unseen eyes lurking in Iron City's blind corners. He knew these streets better than most, could navigate them blind, but tonight, they felt altered, hostile—as though the city itself were conspiring against him.
Luka tugged his collar tighter, the cold rain seeping through the worn fabric, chilling him to the bone. Somewhere, faintly, a sound echoed—a door slamming shut or footsteps fading quickly down an alley. Every noise felt magnified, as if the damp streets themselves were amplifying the city's dark intentions. Each sound—the trickle of rain, a creak overhead, the muffled hum of a distant neon—echoed with unnatural clarity, like the city was murmuring to itself, plotting in a language only shadows understood.
The lights above flickered, casting shadows that stretched and slithered along the pavement like skeletal fingers reaching for him. Luka moved faster, his senses tuned to every murmur and shift around him. He wasn't one to jump at shadows, but Iron City had a way of making even the toughest second-guess themselves.
And right now, the city seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for him to falter.
He rounded a corner, slipping onto a street he knew well—at least, he thought he did. Tonight, even familiar landmarks seemed to leer, their cracked windows and peeling paint giving them an almost predatory cast. The rain beat down harder now, pounding on metal fire escapes, pooling in dark patches that fractured the neon reflections into warped, unrecognizable shapes.
The feeling of being watched intensified, pressing on him like a weight, making every step heavier. He trusted his instincts, and they were screaming now, warning him to stay alert. But turning back wasn't an option. He had to push forward, had to press on through the tightening web of Iron City's shadows if he wanted any hope of getting what he needed.
The alleys didn't just close around him—they seemed to draw him deeper, a maze with a purpose, guiding him toward something unknown. Iron City had always been oppressive, but tonight, it was more than that. It felt like a living force, closing in, conspiring to ensnare him.
The city wasn't just guiding him; it was daring him, waiting with a vision he might regret ever seeking out.
The Rusty Nail was only a few blocks away now, a crumbling dive nestled in the forgotten corners of Iron City. Luka had chosen the location carefully; the place was dark enough to stay off the syndicate's radar but just public enough to discourage a direct attack. But tonight, even The Rusty Nail felt tainted by the city's creeping malice.
As he approached, the bar's neon sign flickered, casting jagged shadows that seemed to slink away, as though trying to hide from Luka's gaze. Inside, muffled voices and the smell of stale beer leaked into the night air, mixing with the rain to form a thick, stagnant fog around the entrance.
Luka paused just outside, pulling his collar close as he scanned his surroundings. The streets were mostly empty, but he didn't miss the fleeting glint of light—a camera tucked behind a broken streetlamp, a silent eye watching him. They were out there, somewhere, waiting. Iron City didn't let people slip through the cracks; it just held them tighter.
He pushed through the bar's door, immediately enveloped by the dim glow of red neon, which seeped through the dark room like blood in water. Patrons hunched over their drinks, heads down, faces obscured by the low light. They were drifters and ghosts, the kind of people who didn't ask questions because they were afraid of the answers.
In the far corner, Ratchet sat nursing a drink, his pale face half-hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, eyes darting with a nervous energy that betrayed his attempt at calm. Ratchet was a fixer, a dealer in whispers and dirty favors. He'd once been reliable, but Iron City had a way of hollowing out even the most trustworthy people, and Luka couldn't afford to trust anyone tonight.
Luka moved through the bar, weaving between tables until he slid into the booth across from Ratchet, who looked up, trying to mask his unease with a thin, greasy smile.
"Didn't expect to see you back in these parts, Luka," Ratchet murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thought you were smarter than that."
"Yeah? Guess I don't scare so easy," Luka replied, his gaze sharp and unwavering. "Got a few questions, and I think you're the man with the answers."
Ratchet chuckled, but there was no humor in it—just a hollow sound that died almost immediately. His fingers tapped the rim of his glass in a staccato rhythm, betraying his nerves. "Questions come with a price, Luka. And some answers… well, they cost more than others."
Luka leaned forward, letting his voice drop to a low, cold tone. "Project Exodus. Phase III. Tell me what you know."
The words seemed to drain the blood from Ratchet's face, his hand freezing mid-tap. He glanced around the room, his gaze flicking toward the exit, as if judging how quickly he could disappear if things went south. His voice was barely audible when he spoke.
"That's… dangerous talk, Luka. You get close to that, and you'll be lucky if they just hollow you out. You're poking the beast."
Luka's eyes narrowed, his patience thin. "Then let's stop wasting time. Tell me what I need to know, and you can go back to hiding in the shadows. Or… we can see what it costs you not to."
Ratchet swallowed, the false bravado slipping as he leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that barely carried over the sound of the rain pattering outside. "Alright. I don't know everything, but I've heard whispers. Phase III… it's about compliance. Turning people into living shells—obedient, controlled. They're setting up hubs around the city, compliance centers. One of them's near the docks, in the old waterfront district. That's all I know."
Luka's expression was unreadable, but his mind churned at the thought. Compliance centers, obedience. The syndicate wasn't just hollowing people out for power; they were building an army, a network that could spread control over the entire city, maybe beyond.
"Who's behind it?" Luka pressed.
Ratchet's face paled even further, his voice barely a whisper. "High-ranking. People who don't leave loose ends. You're in deep, Luka. Deeper than you think."
"Good thing I've got a steady hand," Luka replied, his tone cold.
But as he watched Ratchet's eyes dart toward the entrance, a sliver of realization cut through him—Ratchet's fear wasn't just from the conversation. The fixer wasn't nervous because of Luka's questions; he was nervous because he was waiting for something. Or someone.
Ratchet's gaze flicked to the door once more, and Luka noticed a subtle change in the atmosphere. The low murmur of voices around them had quieted, replaced by a tense silence that clung to the air like damp cloth. Luka's hand moved instinctively toward his weapon as he took in the darkened corners of the bar. There—two figures lingering near the entrance, their eyes fixed on him, their faces shadowed.
Ratchet's smirk returned, a hint of twisted satisfaction in his voice. "You really thought I'd meet you here alone, Luka?"
Luka's jaw tightened. Ratchet had been the bait.
Luka shifted in his seat, his eyes never leaving Ratchet's face as he scanned the positions of the enforcers near the door, noting the quiet rustle of movement from a third in the shadows. They were closing in, surrounding him. He was outnumbered, outgunned.
But Luka wasn't finished. Not yet.
Ratchet leaned back, crossing his arms, his smirk widening. "Always were too curious for your own good, Luka. Should've known better than to poke the beast." His words dripped with mockery, a predator's satisfaction as he watched Luka's predicament.
Luka's muscles coiled, his mind calculating every move, every potential path to the exit. He'd faced worse odds before, but tonight he was up against more than the syndicate's thugs. Iron City itself seemed to close in, every shadow, every corner a potential snare.
One of the enforcers stepped forward, his gun raised, his eyes cold and calculating. Luka's fingers brushed his weapon, his gaze focused, his breathing steady. He wasn't going down without a fight.