Chapter 7: The Courier.

  "Shall we get started?" Ash's voice rang out, as if the absurdity of the situation was lost on her.

  She laid on a worn-out leather couch. The dim glow of a single bulb casting her shadow along the old concrete wall of her base.

  Grim stood by the metal table, its surface cluttered with empty bottles and ashtrays. The package lay at its center — small, inconspicuous, bound in black tape.

  It was innocent in appearance, but the weight it carried was far heavier.

  "You didn't call me here for this," Grim's voice was low, flat. "You're wasting my time."

  "Fifty grand," Ash said, her grin widening.

  "Just a simple delivery."

  Grim's jaw tightened. The number alone was enough to make him tremble.

  People in Duskwatch bled for a fraction of that. It wasn't a question of why the job paid so much. It was why he was the one chosen.

  "And if I say no?" he asked, though they both knew the answer.

  Ash tilted her head back, feigning thoughtfulness. "Then you'll walk out that door, pretend this conversation never happened, and spend the rest of your days regretting it"

  He hated how easy she made it sound. Like he had a choice.

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  "Warehouse 12. Underground sector. Deliver it to a guy in a brown coat. Simple, right?" She pushed the package forward with her fingers towards him.

  Grim's hands curled around the rough tape. "Too simple."

  Ash's grin didn't waver. "Might as well be the best fifty grand you’ll ever make."

  The underground was a beast of its own. A labyrinth of forgotten tunnels and rusted railways.

  Dimly lit by dying fluorescents. The air was damp, thick with the scent of oil and decay. Echoes of distant machinery pulsed like a heartbeat beneath the city.

  Grim moved through the shadows, the weight of the package pulling at his thoughts.

  Every step resounded in the hollow silence.

  The path led him deeper.

  Faint murmurs of unseen voices ebbed and flowed, but none were close.

  Only the hum of the underground remained. He passed hollow train cars, their steel frames twisted and abandoned.

  No guards. No prying eyes. Only him and the pack in his hands.

  The warehouse loomed ahead, its massive frame barely holding together. The metal doors groaned as Grim pushed them open.

  Inside, the air thick with dust, shafts of pale light slipped through ceiling cracks, illuminating the skeletal remains of machines long dead.

  A figure waited in the shadows.

  The man was clad in a brown coat, his face half-hidden beneath the brim of a hat. No words. Only a slight nod as Grim approached.

  The exchange was swift — the package leaving Grim’s hands with a weightless finality.

  "That’s it?" Grim’s voice broke the silence.

  The man didn’t respond. He turned, disappearing into the dim recesses of the warehouse.

  It was done.

  Grim stepped back, his heart steady. Fifty grand. Just like that.

  He walked through the empty corridors, the tension in his chest beginning to ease.

  Ash's face flashed in his mind — that cocky grin. Maybe she really was a goddess.

  Maybe his luck had changed.

  A laugh almost escaped him.

  Then it came.

  A voice, low and cold. It echoed through his skull, crawling beneath his skin.

  You'll die.

  Grim froze.

  The words held no tone, no malice. Only certainty.

  His pulse quickened. The air shifted. And then, through the silence.

  A gunshot.

  To be continued.