I retraced my steps through the corridors, irritation bubbling just beneath the surface. Every twist and turn felt the same, as if the walls themselves were mocking me, leading me in circles. The Vault was a maze, and for a brief, infuriating moment, I realized I had no idea where the hell I was. My skin crawled from the growing annoyance of being stuck in this godforsaken labyrinth. I'd navigated countless streets and alleys in Greyfield—this shouldn't have been so hard. Yet here I was, trapped in some twisted underground warren, every passage blending into the next, the weight of my situation pressing harder with each step.
Finally, after what felt too long, I stumbled upon the door leading back to the main area of the Vault. The oppressive air eased slightly as I re-entered the crowd—a chaotic sea of shifting faces and hushed conversations. Each glance thrown my way felt like judgment, but I pushed it aside. I had a goal: find Brazen Alley, deal with this damn ticket, find some Nebula and figure out how to crawl out from under the mountain of obligations before it buried me for good.
I moved through the crowd, the buzzing energy of the Vault feeling strangely familiar now. For a moment, I paused, leaning against a cold, damp wall. The thought crossed my mind to just let it all go—stop chasing after Nebula, forget about the man I'd been following, toss the ticket onto the ground, and just leave the Vault.
Maybe Fred was right; maybe Nebula wasn't worth the trouble. What was I even hoping to find? An escape? A new high that would solve everything? It felt ridiculous now, standing in the middle of this chaos, clutching a violet ticket that felt more like a curse than a way forward.
And then there was Stag. Midnight was looming, and I had no way to pay him back. No magical solution had fallen into my lap, no last-minute hustle to clear my debt. The thought of leaving the Vault and facing Stag empty-handed made my stomach twist.
I wasn't stupid—I knew what happened to people who failed him. But stuck down here, in this grimy underworld, it almost felt like I was hidden from him, from everything. In a weird way, I felt a twisted sense of security inside the Vault. As dangerous as it was, as unpredictable as it could be, at least here, I wasn't facing the inevitable. Not yet.
I glanced around at the swirling faces, the whispered deals, the hidden dangers lurking behind every corner. Out there, on the streets, the clock was ticking, and my options were running out. In here, time felt different, slower, like I could delay the consequences just a little longer. Maybe it was safer to stay, to figure things out from within the Vault, rather than walk out with nothing but a ticking clock and a death sentence from Stag.
I glanced down at the violet ticket again, its smooth surface gleaming. There had to be a way to turn this into something useful. Maybe this ticket was something more. Maybe it was an opportunity—a way to make some extra cash before midnight so I could face Stag with something more than empty promises.
The idea of making money inside the Vault, enough to pay off Stag, tugged at me. There were always ways to hustle, always something to lift from the unsuspecting or rich fools who thought they were untouchable in places like this. I'd spent most of my life making money off people who weren't paying attention. I could still do it. A few more slick moves, a few rich marks, and I'd be out of here and free from Stag's looming shadow.
But as the plan started forming in my head, Fred's voice came back to me, cutting through the haze of false confidence. Stag's never going to let you get out of this, Lux. Even if you pay him off, he'll find a way to keep you working for him. It's not about the debt—it's about control. Always has been.
My stomach tightened, the truth sinking in. No matter how many slick moves I made, how much money I scraped together, Stag wasn't going to just let me walk. He never had. The debt I carried wasn't just a number on a ledger— it was about keeping me tethered, always in his grasp, always running back when he called.
I could almost hear Fred's weary sigh, the way he'd look at me with that half-smirk, like he already knew how it would all go down. You think you're playing the game, Lux, but it's him. He's always been the one dealing the cards.
The anger bubbled up, hot and bitter. I wasn't like my parents. I wasn't going to waste away under someone else's control. Stag might've had me by the throat for years, but I wasn't going to let him choke the life out of me.
I rubbed the ticket between my fingers absentmindedly, and more of the violet ink bled onto my skin, staining the tips of my fingers. Annoyed, I tried wiping it off on my hoodie, but it wouldn't budge. The ink clung to me. I stared at it for a long moment, feeling the weight of the ticket growing heavier in my mind.
Curiosity gnawed at me. What did this ticket really mean? What was the deal with this Oliver guy? I couldn't shake the feeling that this was more than just a simple transaction waiting to happen.
That curiosity—it had always been there, always pulled at me, stronger than anything else. I couldn't help it. Curiosity was the one thing that had always driven me forward, even when I knew I was walking straight into trouble. I thought back to all the times I'd followed that same itch, that same need to know, to understand.
Sometimes it had led me to incredible places and people—strange, wild adventures that no one else could ever imagine. Places where I felt alive in ways I couldn't explain.
But it had also led me into the worst kinds of trouble. I'd chased thrills that ended in chaos, in danger, in the kind of shit I barely crawled out of. And here I was again, standing on the edge of something I didn't understand, holding something mysterious that was already soaking into my skin like poison.
Part of me knew I should stop, that walking away was the smart move, but the other part—the louder part— couldn't. This was the moment, that familiar fork in the road where I had to decide whether to play it safe or dive headfirst into the unknown. The ticket, the ink, the way it wouldn't wipe off—it all felt like a sign, like it was pulling me further down the rabbit hole.
I let out a slow breath, my decision was made. Walking away wasn't in the cards. I tucked the ticket back into my shirt, feeling its weight pressing against my chest, and pushed forward.
In the crowd, I spotted a man who seemed comfortable in the labyrinthine layout of the place. I approached him, hoping he could point me in the right direction.
"Hey," I said, keeping it casual, "any idea where Brazen Alley is?"
The guy, tall with a scruffy beard, gave me a slow once-over. His gaze caught on the edge of the violet ticket sticking out from my hoodie. "Brazen Alley?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "What's a girl like you doing mixed up in that kind of business?"
I hesitated, not really wanting to spill too much. "I've got a ticket I need to settle from the theater," I said, keeping it vague. "Someone told me Brazen Alley is where I can get it handled."
He raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.
I tried to keep my voice steady. "It's a personal matter. Just need to get this shit sorted out. This place is a fucking maze."
The man's expression shifted to one of concern, mixed with a hint of curiosity.
I felt a hint of embarrassment, but I shrugged it off. "It's complicated. I've got other shit to deal with. I just need to handle this one first."
He sighed and gave me a sympathetic look. "Alright, well, Brazen Alley is down that corridor," he said, pointing towards a narrow passage. "It's not a place you want to linger in if you can avoid it." I nodded gratefully. "Thanks."
As I was about to turn away, I remembered another question I needed to ask. "One more thing," I said, catching the man's attention again. "I'm looking for a drug called Nebula. Do you know where I might find it?"
The man's expression grew thoughtful. "Nebula, huh? That's not something you'll find just anywhere. The best place to start is Green Room Dispo. I've heard they sometimes have it, but they're always sold out. You might have better luck finding someone close to there who's got a stash but be prepared to pay a premium."
I frowned, processing the information.
Following his directions, I wound my way through the corridor he'd pointed me towards, the flickering lights casting long shadows that seemed to stretch and dance with every step I took. I kept my head down, my eyes scanning for any sign of Brazen Alley. After a few wrong turns and backtracking, I finally spotted it—a narrow passageway marked by a faded, weathered sign hanging above the entrance. The words "Brazen Alley" was barely visible in the low light, but it was unmistakably the place.
The alley stretched out like a tunnel, lined with ominous-looking doors on either side. Standing at the entrance was a burly man with a rugged face and a scar that ran down his cheek, giving him a permanent sneer. He noticed me immediately, his eyes narrowing as I drew closer.
Without a word, he reached out and grabbed my hand. I flinched, instinctively trying to pull back, but his grip was firm. He lifted my hand, holding it up to the dim light. The violet stain from the ticket I'd tucked away earlier now glowed vibrantly on my skin.
"Well, well," he said, his voice a gravelly rumble. "Looks like someone's got themselves a nice little debt to pay off." His eyes shifted to my face, a smirk forming as he took in my expression.
I forced myself to keep it together, though my patience was running thin.
I flashed the ticket at him, assuming he was the one I was supposed to hand it off to. "Alright, let's get this over with. You're the guy, right? Take it. Tell me what's next."
He blinked, then burst into a deep, condescending laugh that echoed around the narrow corridor. "You serious?" he asked, wiping his eyes. "You think I'm the guy? That's rich." He pointed at the violet ticket, shaking his head. "Sweetheart, I wouldn't touch that thing with gloves on."
The mocking tone hit me like a slap, and I bit back the urge to snap at him. He continued to chuckle, clearly enjoying my mistake.
"Amateur hour," he muttered, still grinning. He released my hand, pointing down the hallway. "Keep walking until you hit the end. Someone there will know what to do with you." He chuckled, low and menacing.
I walked down the long, narrow hallway; the reality of what I was walking into settled heavy on my shoulders. Debts were clearly paid here, and I had no idea what the cost would be.
At the end of the hall, a man stood waiting for me. Unlike the others I'd encountered down here, he was dressed in a tuxedo, the fabric catching the faint light. He carried himself with an air of calm authority, like someone who knew exactly where they fit in this strange world. As I approached, he offered a polite smile, his eyes scanning me with practiced ease.
"Apologies for the rough welcome," he said, his voice smooth and measured. "The man out front is just a temporary replacement. Our usual guard is on vacation."
The word "vacation" hung in the air, and I couldn't help but chuckle. The thought of someone who worked down here in the Vault—this dark, twisted place—going on a vacation was absurd. Did they trade shifts for a week on a sunny beach, sipping cocktails while pretending this underground hell didn't exist? Maybe they lounged poolside, comparing notes on who trafficked the best drugs while working on their tan. The whole image was so ridiculous it made me laugh out loud.
The man noticed my amusement and raised an eyebrow, his smile widening just a bit. "It might surprise you, but even we have to step away sometimes," he said lightly. "Can't be all work and no play, even in a place like this."
There was something butler-like about him—the way he carried himself with a polished, effortless calm, as if he belonged in some posh estate, not the bowels of this twisted underworld. His accent was distinctly English, though not quite the polished, upper-crust type I'd expect from a real butler. It had an edge, like he'd picked it up from years of drifting around expensive places without ever fully belonging.
I was no stranger to accents. Growing up in Greyfield, you couldn't walk two blocks without hearing a dozen different dialects. The streets were always alive with voices—some familiar, some foreign, all weaving a tapestry of cultures I'd never truly known. I'd always been curious about life beyond the city, beyond the skyline of Greyfield, but deep down, I never really believed I'd leave. It felt like the weight of the streets had wrapped itself around me, tethering me here. So instead, I lived through other people—the tourists, the travelers, the ones who wandered through, sharing snippets of their lives in faraway places. Their stories became my escape, and their accents were a small window into worlds I might never see.
He wasn't intimidating or sleazy like most of the faces I'd seen down here. No threat in his eyes. If anything, he felt neutral. It was unsettling in its own way—how easily he fit into this world without letting it touch him.
Deciding there was no point in dancing around it, I said "So, what's the deal with this ticket?"
He glanced at the ticket I held up, a slight frown crossing his face before he smoothed it away with a practiced smile. "The violet ticket is a symbol of debt," he explained. "A debt that can only be paid through Oliver."
"Oliver?" I asked, my brow furrowing. "Who's he?"
The man's smile tightened just a little, like he'd been asked this question too many times. "Oliver runs this place," he said, his tone carrying a weight that made the air around us feel heavier. "The Vault isn't just a market—it's his empire. He doesn't just deal in debts; he controls them. He decides who owes what, who gets a second chance, and who doesn't." He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering to a near whisper. "Think of him as more than a collector. He's the one who built the rules down here, and he's the one who enforces them."
"It was handed to me at the theater," I explained, keeping my tone steady. "So, what does that mean for me?"
He straightened up, smoothing his tie. "The theater you were trying to get into? Quite the attraction, wouldn't you agree? It's not just for anyone." He arched a brow, waiting for my response before continuing. "Entry requires a black ticket, and those are hard to come by—reserved for high-level clients, the ones with influence, deep pockets, or connections."
He glanced at the ticket again, his expression tightening slightly. "But this? The violet ticket means you didn't have the correct currency for your viewing experience. If you were handed this at the theater, you now owe for it. Only those with serious debts end up with one of these."
"Great," I muttered under my breath, feeling the weight of the ticket suddenly like a stone in my hand. For a moment, it was like I'd just swapped one noose for another—Stag's bullshit for someone else's. The faces changed, the rules shifted, but I was still trapped, still caught in the same cycle.
The man continued, his tone remaining courteous but with an underlying firmness. "High debts like yours are typically negotiated directly with Oliver. That's why the ticket has his name on it. It's an invitation—or rather, an obligation—to meet with him. He's the only one who can clear it for you."
"So, where do I find him?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady despite the anxiety starting to creep in.
The man gestured to the end of another hall. "Just keep going. You'll know when you've reached his door."