What lay before me was a cluster of at least twelve buildings, each over thirty stories tall, packed so tightly together they were nearly fused. The rooms were so small it was obvious they were all single-room units. There was no order to anything—cracked streets, potholes everywhere, piles of trash that made it clear people from other areas came here just to dump their garbage. A full-fledged ghetto.

  I walked slowly around the perimeter, scanning each tower. Supposedly, my target was in Tower 6.

  The air was thick, heavy with humidity and a stench that swayed between stale piss, rotting garbage, and the acrid bite of cheap drugs. Every step I took, the ground crunched beneath my boots—not from gravel or debris, but from years of grime hardened into layers.

  Lights flickered erratically on some of the upper floors, like the buildings themselves were slowly dying, resisting the inevitable darkness that would eventually swallow them whole. From some windows, torn rags that had once been curtains flapped in the wind, long abandoned by their owners. From others, muffled sounds of fights, crying children, or distorted music composed the soundtrack of this place.

  A couple of shadows moved across an elevated walkway between two towers, disappearing behind a rusted door. In a corner, a man crouched over a garbage bag, sifting through it with bare hands, muttering under his breath. Across the street, a group of hollow-eyed teenagers passed around a cigarette of questionable origin. One of them stared at me as I walked by, his face worn down by something far worse than lost youth.

  Tower 6 loomed before me like a monolith of concrete and rust, just as battered and wretched as the rest. The entrance was blocked by a cluster of people who seemed to have no purpose, no direction—just lingering, waiting for time to pass or for someone to tell them what to do. A woman as thin as a corpse leaned against the wall, her sunken eyes staring blankly, her skin riddled with infected sores. Next to her, a man with a swollen face from fresh beatings smoked something that crackled with each drag.

  I took a deep breath—more out of habit than necessity. I already knew there was no clean air to be found here.

  I stepped forward.

  Some were bold enough to move in my way, to try and stop me.

  Three shots rang out. Three bodies dropped. No one else felt brave anymore.

  The entrance was a rusted metal frame, its peeling paint flaking away, left wide open like the mouth of a dying animal. The light from outside barely ventured past the threshold, swallowed whole by the thick darkness within.

  The lobby was in ruins. A reception desk, once made of wood but now just a pile of blackened splinters, was shoved up against a wall where a fallen sign could still be faintly read. Next to it, an elevator stood open, revealing only a pitch-black shaft—no cables, no lights, just a void reeking of decay, and no one dared to question why.

  The hallways stretched out like a senseless maze, with no symmetry or structure, covered in water stains and lined with exposed pipes dripping brown liquid into stagnant puddles. The flickering lights buzzed in an erratic rhythm, some replaced with red or green bulbs, giving everything the fever-dream glow of a nightmare.

  The apartment doors were a patchwork of makeshift metal sheets, rusted padlocks, and graffiti. Some were left ajar, revealing even more miserable interiors—bare mattresses on the floor, soot-streaked walls, bodies huddled around makeshift braziers. Others were sealed with wooden planks and chains, covered in filthy handprints and messages scrawled in cheap paint: “Do not touch.” “Nothing here.” “Come back when you’re dead.”

  The sounds within the tower were an incoherent mess of distorted echoes—crying children, heated arguments, a TV blaring at full volume somewhere deep inside. From higher up, a dog barked desperately, as if it knew it was trapped in the same hell as everyone else.

  I kept moving. No one tried to stop me this time. No one picked up the bodies.

  An old man watched me from a crumbling staircase, his gaze hollow, like he saw me but didn’t see me at the same time. His skin was paper-thin, his bony fingers trembling around an unlit cigarette. He said nothing. He did nothing. He just existed.

  The upper floors were even worse. The air was thicker, heavy with smoke and mold. Through the shattered windows, the wind howled with a metallic wail, rattling the few panels still clinging to their frames. As I climbed higher, the shadows stretched longer, and the feeling of being watched grew stronger.

  Tower 6 wasn’t just a building. It was a graveyard of dreams, a vertical tomb where people lived only because they hadn’t yet found a way to die.

  And my target was somewhere in here.

  Finding him was more luck than strategy. I went door to door, taking quick glances at the occupants, searching for someone who matched the description I’d been given. I didn’t have many options—locals weren’t exactly keen on helping. I didn’t blame them.

  But then—

  —Hey, what’re you doin’ here?

  In one of the rooms—just as crowded with people sprawled on the floor as any other—a little girl looked at me and stood up immediately, trailing behind me.

  I pulled my gun without hesitation.

  —Back off. This ain’t your business.

  But the brat didn’t even flinch. She raised her hands, but not in fear—more like she was used to doing it.

  —You ain’t from ‘round here, huh? Lookin’ for somethin’? If you’re lookin’ for somethin’ in this place, I can find it… for a price.

  —Not your business.

  I took another look at the adults passed out on the floor. None of them matched the description, so I kept walking.

  I heard her footsteps following me.

  —You know, it’s gonna be real hard to find what you’re lookin’ for without help. Everythin’ here looks the same, and people ‘round here ain’t friendly, ya know?

  I kept moving, scanning room after room.

  —Hey, if you ain’t got money, you can pay me some other way… Or in installments, I ain’t mean. We can even negotiate the price.

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  —Shut up and stop following me.

  I pointed the gun at her again. She stopped, raised her hands once more, but her eyes showed not a single trace of fear. Having a gun in her face wasn’t new to her. The fact that this little brat had more guts than that bastard Viktor made my blood boil.

  The second I turned away, I heard her footsteps again.

  “Persistent little shit.”

  —No need to be so tense, ya know? Most of the dealers and gangs don’t even live here anymore. They just come to sell and bounce.

  —I’m not tense, kid. And you should always stay on guard.

  —So what’re you after, huh? You here to kill some dealers? Or did the Metal Sisters send you? Nah… but you don’t got the crazy augments those nutjobs carry...

  I pushed open another door, another room, nothing. The irritation was starting to crawl up my spine.

  —Alright, kid. Let’s say I need to find someone I know lives here.

  —Easy. Lisa knows everyone in these towers.

  —You sure about that?

  —Lisa knows everybody.

  —Alright, smartass. If you can take me to him quick, I’ll pay you. I’m looking for a former Enforcer. Name’s Balian. Big guy, like—

  —Oh, Uncle Balian! I like him. He used to give out candy. Ain’t seen him much lately, but he’s got his little corner on the eighth floor. Follow me.

  “The fuck?” Could this kid actually know who I was talking about?

  Going back down to keep searching would be a pain in the ass. But something in my gut told me to follow the little brat.

  She started climbing the stairs, dodging junkies and syringes on the floor with the kind of grace that comes from growing up in an environment so broken. Eventually, she led me to a door on the eighth floor, just another one among many, with the same chipped paint and the same stench of stale urine that permeated the entire building.

  Lisa stopped in front of the entrance and knocked with her knuckles—two quick taps, one slow.

  —Uncle Balian, it’s me, Lisa! I brought someone who wants to talk to you.

  There was no response.

  Lisa clicked her tongue and tried again, this time kicking the door hard.

  —Wake up, old man! Don’t make me look bad!

  I waited a few seconds, but nothing. I turned to the brat, losing my patience.

  —You sure he lives here?

  —Duh, I know. He’s always here, except when he’s not.

  I frowned at her.

  —Stop talking nonsense.

  Lisa huffed and rolled her eyes.

  —Look, if he’s not answering, it’s either ‘cause he’s up to something, or ‘cause he did something. Take your pick.

  I sighed. I clenched my fist and knocked on the door myself. Nothing.

  I was about to insist when I heard a muffled sound from the other side, like something falling. Then, a slow dragging noise.

  Lisa smiled.

  —Here he comes.

  The sound of a bolt sliding open echoed. Then, the door creaked open just a few inches. A single bloodshot eye stared out at us from the crack.

  —Lisa… what the hell do you want now?

  The girl nodded her head towards me.

  —This guy wants to talk to you. And he’s paying me for bringing him here.

  The eye studied me, as if trying to see something beyond what was right in front of it. Then, the door slammed shut.

  A long silence.

  Lisa blinked.

  —Uh… that doesn’t usually happen.

  I put my hand on the door and gave it a push. It barely moved; it wasn’t fully closed.

  Something in my gut screamed at me to go in, so I shoved the door open with all my strength. It swung wide, throwing Balian backward.

  Inside was a den of misery and abandonment. The room stank of sour sweat, cheap liquor, and dry vomit. The walls were covered in mold and dark stains of questionable origin, while the floor was a mess of empty bottles, cigarette butts, and wrappers from rotten food. A filthy mattress took up one corner, with sheets so dirty they seemed glued to the fabric. On a wobbly table, a used syringe lay next to a half-open can of food, surrounded by flies. The only trace of humanity was an old, faded photo covered in dust, lying on the floor like another waste.

  —The famous Balian? The wrath of the nine districts?

  The disgusting figure looked at me with bloodshot, narrowed eyes, barely reacting to my words. His scruffy beard was matted with god knows what, and his skin, scarred and filthy, made him look like a man who’d fought too many wars—most of them against himself.

  He grunted something unintelligible and shifted on the filthy mattress, knocking over a couple of empty bottles in the process. He didn’t look like the feared Enforcer they’d described to me; he was just a human wreck, buried in his own decay.

  —Who the hell’s askin’? —he muttered in a raspy voice, the kind of voice someone gets after drinking too much and talking too little.

  Lisa crossed her arms and clicked her tongue.

  —Uncle Balian, this guy wants to talk to you.

  —Oh, really? —He straightened up with difficulty, his joints cracking like he hadn’t moved much in years—. Then you'd better have something more than words, asshole.

  —My name is Kailen Neuvak, let’s cut to the chase, I don’t want to be here long, here’s the deal:

  I took a job for the Neuvak, no, I’m not one of them, even though I have their name. I’ve been away from them for over three years, and I don’t plan to go back.

  I need trained, strong men for the mission. The Neuvak are willing to pay a hefty sum, so they’ll cover whatever you charge.

  Yeah, I’ve got something that’ll bring you back. More specifically, I know exactly who pulled you out of that body, and I’ve got info that’ll let you settle the score.

  Balian looked at me with a mix of disbelief and disdain, then let out a dry, humorless laugh.

  —Look, asshole, if I wanted revenge, I would’ve taken it by now.

  He rubbed his face with shaky hands, leaving an even more visible trail of grime on his skin.

  —Money? Don’t need it. Work? Don’t want it. Revenge? Don’t care.

  He waved his hand vaguely, gesturing to the mess around him.

  —Look where I am. You think I want to go back to that shit?

  I crossed my arms.

  —If you really didn’t care, you’d be dead. But here you are, rotting in this trash heap. Which means, deep down, you still have some pride left.

  His eyes hardened for a moment. A flash of the legend he once was.

  —And what the hell do you know about my pride?

  I smirked.

  —I know a man like you doesn’t stop being an Enforcer just because they told you you’re not one anymore. Your body remembers, your mind remembers. You’re still alive because deep down you’re waiting for an opportunity. And I’m giving it to you.

  Balian fell silent. Lisa, who had been standing by the door watching, scratched her head and looked at me curiously.

  —Uncle, if you don’t do it for yourself, do it for Lisa. I miss the candy.

  The bastard gave a half-smile, filthy and crooked, but still carrying a trace of what once made him terrifying.

  —Tell me more, asshole.

  I couldn’t help but chuckle. I lit a cigarette and continued.

  —It was Reiner who threw you to the wolves.

  Balian’s face turned to one of disbelief.

  —Yeah, I know, it’s the same Reiner who married your daughter shortly after your expulsion. It was probably all orchestrated. Some believe your daughter was part of the plan, based on the statements she made about you, you could deduce that. However, she was found dead recently. Apparently, her car forgot to have brakes that day, and instead, it had explosives. Odd thing, if you ask me. It might be obvious, but if you help me with my mission, I’ll help you. We’ll take that bastard down and I’ll help you clear up the mysteries around your daughter.

  Balian fell silent. His face, once stone-like, cracked for a moment. His eyes, sunken in the shadow of his own decay, darkened even further.

  He slumped into a broken chair and ran a trembling hand over his sweaty bald head.

  —I knew she was dead —he murmured, almost to himself—. But I didn’t know how.

  The cigarette between my lips glowed faintly, the smoke swirling between us like a spectral veil.

  —I’m not gonna lie to you, old man. I don’t know if she was involved in the plan, but I do know they cleaned her up as soon as she stopped being useful.

  Balian snorted, a bitter, half-hearted laugh.

  —I’ve got nothing left, asshole. My daughter’s dead. My reputation’s in the gutter. I don’t even have a grave to spit on.

  I knew then that he was about to reject me. I saw it in his empty gaze, in the way his back hunched, like the little will he had left was crumbling away.

  That’s when I played my last card.

  —Your grandson’s still alive.

  The room fell into a deathly silence.

  Balian lifted his head, his bloodshot eyes locking onto mine.

  —You’re lying.

  His voice trembled. It was the first time I saw him genuinely shaken.

  —I’m not. Reiner put him in an orphanage. Apparently, he wasn’t his son.

  Balian clenched his fists, his breathing growing heavy. I could see his whole being teetering between hopelessness and a searing rage.

  —Tell me where.

  I smiled, letting the smoke from the cigarette slip between my lips.

  —First, get up. Then, you accept the deal.

  He stayed still for a few seconds, then, with a guttural grunt, he stood up. His muscles, old but still deadly, tensed. There was fury in his gaze. And there was purpose.

  —Son of a bitch —he spat, a mix of hatred and resolve—. You have my attention.

  Thank you for reading!

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