The third floor was a city buried underground.
A labyrinth of twisting alleys and decaying buildings, stacked like forgotten tombstones.
Flickering oil lamps clung to the walls, their dim light casting wavering shadows—stretching, distorting, shifting—like something alive.
The air was thick with decay.
Mold. Stagnant water. Rotting flesh.
A scent so distinct—so suffocating—that it seeped into your skin, refusing to let go.
We had been searching for hours.
Through broken markets.
Through crumbling alleys.
Through streets that felt like they were closing in on us.
But no matter how far we walked—
Moskov's office was nowhere to be found.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead, scanning the narrow alleys ahead.
The buildings here had no windows.
Only small, jagged gaps—letting in just enough light to make you wonder who—or what—was watching from the other side.
"Could it be that his office doesn't exist?" I muttered, my voice laced with doubt.
Tink, silent all this time, finally stopped.
One hand on his chin, his sharp eyes calculating. Analyzing.
"Could it be hidden?" I asked, the idea sinking in like a stone in my gut.
Tink frowned. Thought for a long time. Then finally, he nodded.
"If Moskov is truly one of the most powerful men on the 3rd floor," he murmured, voice low, "then there's no way he would let his office stand openly in this hellhole."
Without another word, he reached into his coat.
Pulled out a small bird—a sparrow with sharp, intelligent eyes.
This was no ordinary creature.
This was a messenger bird, trained for the underworld—
A tool of outlaws. Informants. Spies.
Tink ripped off a small piece of paper, his fingers quick, decisive.
He scribbled our request in dark charcoal ink—
"Where is Moskov hiding his headquarters? Need more information on how to get there."
He rolled the paper up, carefully stuffing it into the small tube tied around the bird's leg.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper—
"Go."
The sparrow chirped softly, its wings flapping as it vanished into the darkness—slipping between the towering ruins, swallowed whole by the night.
Tink folded his arms.
"Voska doesn't always respond right away," he said. "But if he has information, he won't keep us waiting for long."
I nodded, but something didn't feel right.
This entire floor felt like a trap.
A predator's maze, built to consume anyone foolish enough to step inside.
And we—
We were just two mice, scrambling through its corridors, hoping we wouldn't meet the beast lurking within.
Moskov...
If he knew we were searching for him, would he let us walk away alive?
The battles we had fought left deep wounds.
Even though I tried to move like I was unharmed, every step sent sharp pain through my body.
And Tink?
Tink was even worse.
His fight with Loster had drained him—his wounds still raw, his strength barely holding on.
While waiting for news from Voska, we made a decision.
The infirmary.
We had to patch ourselves up.
If another battle broke out… we couldn't afford to be weak.
The only infirmary on Level 3 was buried deep in a ruined neighborhood.
A rotting building, its cracked walls covered in thick moss, its windows sealed with tattered cloth—as if hiding something far worse inside.
The second we stepped through the splintering wooden door—
The smell hit me.
Blood.
Antiseptic.
Rot.
It clawed at my throat, forcing me to swallow back the bile rising in my stomach.
The cramped room was dimly lit by swaying oil lamps, their weak flames casting long, shifting shadows across the walls—
Like a crypt, barely clinging to life.
Scattered across the floor—
The wounded.
Some sat hunched in dark corners, bandaged from head to toe.
Others groaned in agony, sprawled across old wooden beds, their bodies writhing with pain.
I recognized some of them—
Warriors. Mercenaries. Survivors.
Men who had fought and bled on this cursed floor.
Their gazes followed us as we entered.
Cold. Suspicious. Untrusting.
Like wolves watching intruders step into their den.
A man stepped forward.
Middle-aged.
Wearing a white robe stained with blood.
His hair was disheveled, his eyes sunken and dark—
Like someone who hadn't slept in days.
His voice was hoarse.
Tired.
But sharp.
"What do you want?"
Tink pulled back his cloak.
Revealing the roughly bandaged wound, blood still seeping through the cloth.
"We need treatment," he said, his voice steady.
The man studied us for a long moment.
Then, with a slight jerk of his chin—
He motioned us toward the corner of the room.
The man jerked his chin.
"Sit down. But remember—nothing is free here."
I frowned.
Said nothing.
I just pulled Tink to the designated spot, our boots echoing against the old wooden floor.
Nothing was free.
Not in a place like this.
If you didn't have money, they'd take something else.
Something worse.
A nurse approached.
Her face was gaunt, her eyes sunken into deep hollows.
She carried a rusty tray filled with needles, stained bandages, and half-empty bottles of antiseptic.
Without a word, she grabbed my arm—ripping off the old bandages with practiced indifference.
A sharp, burning pain tore through my skin.
I gritted my teeth, but she only snorted.
"If you can't handle pain, you shouldn't be here."
Her voice was flat, almost bored.
Like she had seen too many like me.
Like she knew I would either survive… or become another corpse rotting in the alleyways.
As she worked, I kept my eyes on the room.
Something wasn't right.
The patients here…
Some of them weren't normal.
Their skin was pale.
Their veins dark—crawling under their flesh like something alive.
Their hands trembled, eyes darting around the room like they were being hunted by something only they could see.
A cold chill ran down my spine.
I leaned over, whispering under my breath.
"Tink. Did you see?"
He didn't answer right away.
But he had seen.
His tense posture. His clenched jaw.
Then, a small nod.
"Something's wrong," he murmured.
And then—
A scream tore through the room.
A patient convulsed violently in the corner.
His body jerked, twisted, his spine arching unnaturally as a gargled, inhuman sound escaped his throat.
The nurses rushed to him, trying to hold him down, but—
His skin.
It split open like fragile parchment.
Black blood oozed from the cracks, sizzling as it met the cold air.
His eyes rolled back—widening in sheer, unfiltered horror—
And then—
A final spasm.
And silence.
A deafening silence.
Across the room, another patient whispered in fear.
"…Another one."
I clenched my fists.
Because whatever the hell was happening here…
It was just beginning.
Something was wrong with this place.
I could feel it—like an itch at the back of my skull.
The infirmary reeked of death, but it wasn't just the smell of corpses.
It was something deeper.
Something rotting from the inside out.
I left Michel and began to look around.
Every shadow, every flickering light, it all felt wrong.
The patients weren't just injured.
They were decaying while still alive.
Something was eating them from within.
Their eyes—hollow, lifeless.
But every now and then…
I caught them watching me.
A quick glance.
A slow turn of the head.
And then—gone.
Like they were waiting.
Waiting for something to happen.
The hallways were narrow, barely wide enough for two people to pass.
The dim oil lamps cast long, twisted shadows on the damp stone walls.
And the smell.
Not just antiseptic.
But something else.
Something rotting.
Something old and sour, like meat left to fester in the dark.
I moved further.
A wooden door—ajar.
From inside—
Whispers.
Shuffling fabric.
Labored breathing.
I placed a hand on my knife, carefully pushing the door open.
A cold draft seeped out.
And what I saw—
Made my blood run cold.
Three bodies.
Tied to wooden chairs.
Their heads lolled forward, unmoving.
Their skin was pale gray, almost wax-like, as if their souls had been sucked dry.
Thick, black veins ran from their temples down their throats, pulsing slightly—like they weren't quite dead yet.
Their eyes—wide open.
Their mouths—frozen in a silent scream.
Like they had seen something before they died.
Something they couldn't comprehend.
I took a step back.
A loose floorboard creaked.
Shit.
Before I could react—
A cold hand gripped my shoulder.
A voice—low, too close to my ear.
"What are you doing, kid?"
I spun around, knife flashing in my grip.
And there he was—
A man in a white coat.
A doctor. Or maybe just something pretending to be one.
His skin—so pale it was nearly translucent.
And his eyes—
Pitch black.
No whites. No pupils.
Just endless darkness.
And worst of all—
He didn't blink.
I took a slow step back, knife raised.
"Just curious."
I kept my voice calm.
Even though I could feel my pulse pounding in my throat.
The doctor tilted his head.
Then, his lips curled into a grin.
A wide, unnatural grin.
"Curious people here… don't usually live long."
He moved.
Too fast.
I barely saw the flash of something sharp before a burning pain tore across my cheek.
"Fuck—!"
I jumped back, heart hammering against my ribs.
No more talking.
This was a fight.
And I was right in the middle of their lair.
No hesitation.
One step forward—
A sharp stab to the throat.
A gurgled gasp.
A wet, choking sound.
The doctor's black eyes widened, his body convulsing.
Blood spilled from his mouth.
I pulled the knife out.
He collapsed.
No time to waste.
I dragged his body into the shadows, covering it with a tattered cloth.
My breath came fast, shallow.
Because I knew—
If there was one, there were more.
And they already knew I was here.
This wasn't an infirmary.
This was a goddamn human slaughterhouse.
The three corpses tied to the chairs—stitched up like butchered meat.
Messy incisions. Sloppy stitches. Fresh gashes on their stomachs.
I clenched my fists, rage boiling in my veins.
They weren't treating people here.
They were harvesting them.
"Damn it…"
Michel and I had walked straight into a nest of monsters.
Footsteps.
I moved.
Dragged the doctor's corpse into the shadows, then slipped behind a wooden cabinet.
The door creaked open.
Two nurses walked in.
"Is Ratmor down?" one asked, voice deep, husky.
"Not really. He's not dead, just badly injured."
What?!
Ratmor was supposed to be dead. Michel cut him to pieces.
"How could that be? Michel sliced him up."
"Tch. He must have split his soul into a rat before dying."
A demon's dirty trick.
I held my breath.
So he was still out there.
Waiting. Watching.
Then the conversation took an even worse turn.
"Anyway, those kids are in big trouble."
One of them laughed.
"The bounty on each of them is now 500 million DK."
500 million DK?!
My stomach dropped.
We weren't just targets.
We were prey.
The nurses left.
I stayed hidden a little longer, then moved fast.
I had to find Michel.
Now.
Michel's POV: Death in Five Seconds
I sat still.
Waiting for Tink.
But something was wrong.
The feeling of being watched.
Not by one person.
By five.
I lifted my glass of water, tilting it just enough to catch their shadows.
Five figures.
Moving like predators.
Hidden daggers, hidden intent.
I curled my lips slightly.
Demons.
Not as strong as Loster, but still dangerous.
And they thought they could hunt me?
Big mistake.
The first one moved.
Blade flashing—aiming for my back.
I dropped the glass—sharp clang.
Spun.
Caught his wrist—bent it back.
CRACK.
His blade clattered to the floor.
My sword flashed.
A single cut.
Blood sprayed.
His body hit the ground.
The other four reacted.
Two charged.
I leaped.
Spun midair.
Slashed one across the chest.
The second lunged with his knife.
Too slow.
I had already seen it.
My sword punched through his chest before he even realized his mistake.
The fourth backed up—throwing knife ready.
I blinked.
Appeared right next to him.
One clean slash.
He dropped.
The last one?
Tried to run.
I picked up the fallen dagger—
And threw.
The blade sank straight into the back of his neck.
He collapsed.
Motionless.
It all happened in less than a minute.
I let out a slow breath, wiped my blade clean, and sheathed my sword.
Then, I saw Tink running toward me.
His face was tight. Urgent.
"We're in trouble, Michel."
I frowned. "What's going on?"
Tink didn't waste time.
He told me everything.
The infirmary. The organ trafficking.
Ratmor wasn't dead.
And worst of all—
Our bounty had just skyrocketed to 500 million DK.
I exhaled sharply.
500 million.
That wasn't a price—it was a death sentence.
Every low-life, bounty hunter, and assassin in the city would be after us.
We needed to move. Now.
We found a secluded corner in the infirmary, patched up our wounds as best we could, then slipped out.
Blending into the crowd, we changed our appearance—nothing too obvious, just enough to throw off pursuers.
With 500 million DK on our heads, we weren't just in danger.
We were walking targets.
As we moved, a small sparrow swooped down and landed on Tink's hand.
A messenger bird.
"News from Voska," he said.
My stomach tightened.
Voska wouldn't contact us unless it was serious.
I took the tiny letter from the bird's leg and unfolded it.
The words inside were brief, but ominous.
"Black building. Newspaper Street. Scarface… Be careful."
Tink frowned.
"The black building—I've heard of it. It's in one of the worst parts of the third floor."
I nodded.
"And Newspaper Street? Could be a place crawling with journalists, spies, and informants."
"And 'Scarface'?" Tink muttered. "Who the hell is he?"
I narrowed my eyes.
"If Voska mentioned him, he must be tied to Moskov."
We moved through the crowded alleys, eventually settling near a group of homeless beggars sharing a piece of moldy bread.
Among them, an old man sat hunched against a wall, his weathered face etched with experience.
I flipped a small coin in my fingers, then flicked it toward him.
"I need information."
The man caught the coin, inspecting it with a practiced eye.
Then he gave me a slow nod.
"Ask. If I know, I'll tell you."
"Newspaper Street. Where is it?"
For a moment, the old man said nothing.
Then, a flicker of caution crossed his gaze.
Finally, he exhaled and muttered:
"Newspaper Street… It ain't just a street. It's a battlefield.
News is bought and sold like weapons.
And the ones holding the pens are deadlier than the ones holding the knives."
Tink and I exchanged glances.
This was it. This was where we needed to go.
"And what about Scarface?" I pressed.
The old man let out a dry, bitter laugh.
"Scarface? There are hundreds of them on the third floor. But if you mean someone tied to Newspaper Street…"
He leaned in, lowering his voice.
"There's only one.
They call him 'The Evil Eye.'"
Tink stiffened.
I narrowed my eyes.
"Who is he?"
"A broker of secrets. He knows everything but only speaks when the price is right."
"And?"
"And…" the old man gave a knowing smirk,
"He's one of Moskov's closest men."
I felt my pulse quicken.
Bingo.
We were finally getting closer to Moskov.
But that also meant…
We were diving deeper into the lion's den.