"Tia, Zach… ?" Danny whispered, his voice trembling as he backed into a corner.
Neither of them answered.
The room felt colder, darker.
Zach noticed the fear on Danny's face and shook his head.
"Let's go," he muttered, then turned sharply and walked toward the exit.
Meanwhile Tia shot both of them a withering glare, her anger almost palpable, before storming off.
Danny hesitated for a moment, his legs trembling with doubt, but eventually followed behind them.
Yet, no matter how much he tried, he couldn't shake the lingering sensation from earlier.
The vividness of what he had experienced—what felt more like a reality than a dream—gnawed at the edges of his mind.
Emerging from the rundown shelter, Danny was greeted by the grim, chaotic sprawl of Vargath.
The city was a patchwork of decay and desperation, its narrow streets clogged with filth and shadowed by crumbling structures.
The air was thick with the stench of rotting garbage and unwashed bodies.
As they moved through the labyrinth of alleys, Danny's eyes wandered, catching glimpses of the city's sordid heartbeat.
A few residents hauled overflowing sacks of trash to the outskirts, their faces blank with exhaustion.
Nearby, a group of scrawny men tinkered with stolen iron trinkets—spoons, gears, and other oddities—preparing to open a makeshift shop under the cover of night.
Darktime in Vargath was the perfect stage for the black market. The stolen goods would fetch desperate buyers, and the streets would come alive with illicit trade.
Danny's gaze flicked to another stall, where a man strung up frayed, mismatched garments on a sagging wire.
A few feet away, a wiry figure wrestled with a locked cage containing a red-furred cat. The animal hissed and clawed at its captor, its wild eyes a mirror of the desperation all around.
In another corner, vendors peddled vegetables and fruits that were far past their prime—bruised, shriveled, or half-eaten.
Despite their sorry state, a small line of customers clutched cracked, broken coins, ready to buy whatever they could to stave off hunger.
Weapons were also in demand.
Knives, clubs, and rusted hammers lined the stalls like macabre trophies.
Danny's eyes drifted to Tia's waist, where her knife hung, a stark reminder of how survival here often meant bloodshed.
As they walked, a jarring sight caught Danny's attention.
Towering figures, easily nine or ten feet tall, strode through the crowd. Their faces were obscured by strange, ornate masks, their movements silent and purposeful. People parted for them instinctively, eyes averted, as if even acknowledging their presence might invite disaster.
Danny's discomfort grew as they passed another alley.
Men and women leaned against the walls, their eyes scanning the trio as they walked by. Some made overt gestures, beckoning Zach and Tia toward them, offering themselves for a quick exchange. One woman even winked at Danny, her grin predatory.
But no one paid any attention.
This is Vargath—a place where morality was just another thing sold in the alleys.
As Danny trudged along, his mind couldn't stop spinning. That dream—or whatever it was—clung to him like a shadow. He felt as though he was missing something, some key to understanding what had happened.
Finally, they arrived at their destination: a sturdy shop with a large sign that read "Sip & Swig."
The faint murmur of drunken voices seeped through the cracks in the door as Zach and Tia entered.
Danny lingered outside for a moment, staring at the door, before taking a deep breath and following them in.
...
Gurgle.
Gurgle.
The heavy gurgle of liquid filled the place as a rugged man with jet-black hair and a thick beard poured green wine into a wooden jar. He wore an orange blazer over a plain black t-shirt, his burly hands moving with precision despite his distracted expression.
"I just don't get it," he grumbled to the man waiting for the drink.
"Why don't my kids ever lend a hand around here? Other folks' children step up, but mine?" He shook his head, clearly frustrated.
The man across from him, shorter with tan skin and a few blemishes marking his face, gave an apologetic smile. His dark hair was slicked back, but his humble demeanor contrasted with the vibrant atmosphere of the establishment.
"Don't take it too hard. They'll come around eventually," he offered, his voice calm, almost soothing.
The bearded man snorted, setting the jar down with a heavy thud.
"Must be a new business, eh, Sun Ping?" he muttered, his eyes briefly meeting those of the shorter man.
Sun Ping chuckled nervously, offering nothing but his customary smile as he took the jar.
Bowing slightly in gratitude, he made his way across the lively place.
This place, unlike the chaos outside, was filled with an unusual sense of order.
Voices hummed with steady chatter, laughter bubbled from corners, and patrons seemed almost civilized—a stark contrast to the desperate streets of Vargath.
Sun Ping glanced back over his shoulder, his gaze briefly resting on the bearded owner of the establishment.
With a mixture of respect, Sun Ping turned back to his table and settled into his seat.
At the table sat two figures, their presence commanding attention.
To his left was a bald man with a rugged build, his scarred hands resting on the table. He sat in stoic silence, exuding an aura of quiet menace.
Opposite him was a woman whose coiled hair resembled serpents. Her boots were casually propped up on the table. The set of her jaw and the sharp glint in her eyes left no doubt—she was in charge.
The bald man reached into his belt and tossed a leather pouch onto the table which landed with a muted thud.
"That concludes our business," he said flatly.
Sun Ping leaned forward, his fingers curling around the pouch.
"Well," he murmured, his tone light, "I suppose it does."
He uncorked the jar and took a sip of wine, savoring the bitter taste as he opened the pouch.
Inside, bronze coins glinted in the low light.
For a moment, relief washed over him. Then, his brows knit together in confusion. He counted the coins quickly, his movements growing frantic.
His expression darkened.
"This… This is too low," he said, his voice rising in disbelief. "We agreed on five thousand."
The bald man shrugged, his tone indifferent.
"Market prices have changed. This is the new rate."
Sun Ping's fist clenched, his anger bubbling over.
"But we had a deal!" he shouted, throwing the pouch back at the man. The leather bag hit him in the chest, spilling coins across the table. The metallic clink of bronze echoed through the place.
One coin rolled toward the edge of the table, teetering dangerously close to falling.
Suddenly—thwack.