They met under rusted catwalks, three levels down from the League-maintained streets—beneath the city, where air was thick with old grease, soot, and something metallic that clung to the tongue.
It wasn't a bar.
It wasn't a shop.
It was a room behind a room, locked behind a door with no sign—just a scratched-out sticker that once read "ELECTRICAL MAINTENANCE."
Now it served a different purpose.
The contact Elias had called was already waiting. Thin, pale, one eye slightly cloudy. He wore a soot-streaked utility vest and had three different burner phones clipped to his belt. His boots looked like they hadn't left this level in months.
He didn't look at Orion.
"Name?" he asked Elias.
"Doesn't matter," Elias said. "You owe me."
"Not for this kind of thing."
"Then consider this a new debt. We're looking for a fossil-type. Stolen in a trainer zone. Capsule ID's scrambled by now, but it had a League-registered serial yesterday."
The man chewed on the edge of a plastic coffee stirrer. "That's a hard ask."
"You work with handlers. If it's being moved in this district, someone's got eyes on it."
The man flicked the stirrer onto the ground. "If I dig too deep, I end up in a crate."
"You're not digging. You're pointing."
He looked between them. Finally, at Orion.
"You the one who lost it?"
Orion's voice was low. "He's not lost. He was taken."
That hung in the air for a beat too long.
Then the man sighed. "Yesterday morning, a shipment came through Yard C. Twenty capsules. All clean-registered, but no source tags. Most got moved fast—Spearow, Machop, a beat-up Growlithe. One of 'em bit a guy. Fossil-type. Aggressive. Said to be malformed. Got locked up for containment."
Orion's hands curled into fists.
"Where?"
"Can't say. Don't know," the man said quickly. "But if it's what you say, it'll be filtered through Gate Nine. That's the holding line before shipment out of district. Last stop before things go cold."
Orion's heart thudded.
"When?"
"Could be tonight. Could be tomorrow morning. Depends who paid."
Orion stepped forward. "You can get us in?"
The man flinched. "I didn't say that."
"Then tell me who can."
He hesitated. "You're looking for a man named Karrow. Old handler. Doesn't move goods anymore, but he knows where they go. Sits in a bolt-room down under sector four. East pipe hall, behind the collapsed slag tunnel. You'll smell rust and piss before you find the door."
Elias nodded. "Thanks."
"I didn't help," the man said quickly. "You came in for vent repair. We talked about burner encryption. You paid me cash."
"You get your favor," Elias said.
They left in silence.
Sector Four was like stepping into the city's lungs.
Pipes wept condensation. The floor was always slick. The lights blinked in cycles—some on, some off, some dead. Each wall bore warning signs in five languages: DANGER. CONTAINMENT BREACH. UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY PROHIBITED.
It had been condemned decades ago. That made it perfect.
The slag tunnel wasn't hard to find. It reeked of mold, ammonia, and rust. They followed the half-collapsed hallway until they found the iron hatchway door. It was unmarked. Bolted shut with an old keypad lock.
Elias reached into his bag and pulled out a narrow metal rod.
Orion blinked. "What is that?"
"Industrial circuit tapper."
"Where did you—?"
"Focus."
A few sparks later, the keypad went dark. Then flickered green.
The door clicked.
Inside, the world turned to heat.
It was like stepping into an engine room. Rows of massive, ancient furnaces lined the space, now cold and lifeless. A small metal desk stood against one wall, stacked with ledgers, notepads, and something that looked suspiciously like a Poké Ball scanner.
A man sat behind it—bald, thickset, skin like dried parchment. His arms were tattooed with serial numbers that ran in concentric circles around his wrists. His right eye was a matte prosthetic. No shine. Just dead white glass.
"Who told you about me?" he asked.
Elias stepped forward. "We're not cops."
"I didn't ask."
"Looking for a Pokémon. Fossil-type. Tyrunt. Small. Scarred. Taken yesterday."
Karrow stared at him. Then at Orion.
"You're the trainer."
"Yes."
"You want it back."
"Obviously."
Karrow scratched his cheek. "You know how many kids come to me crying about lost Pokémon?"
"No," Orion said. "Because I'm not crying."
That earned a pause.
Karrow leaned back in his chair, spine creaking. "Last I heard, a Tyrunt came through the V-Line. Tagged for quarantine after attacking a handler. Got put on a freeze schedule. That means it's in containment, not holding. You can't buy it. Can't bid on it. Too dangerous."
"Where is it?"
"Containment runs through Sublevel 9-B. Used to be a coolant maintenance sector. Now it's just cages and crates."
"How do I get there?"
"You don't."
Orion took a step forward. "Try again."
Karrow raised one thick finger. "You don't. Not unless you've got a handler badge, three verified entry tokens, or you're already inside when the next shift change hits."
Elias stepped in. "Can you fake a badge?"
"I can make a badge," Karrow said. "But I won't. Not for a kid."
Orion reached into his pocket. Pulled out the League payout chip from the gym win.
"2,500₽."
Karrow didn't even blink. "Try ten times that."
Orion's stomach sank.
"I'll find another way."
"Do that," Karrow said, already turning away. "But if you do get in, bring a second capsule."
"Why?"
Karrow gave a thin smile.
"Because if your Tyrunt's in there, it won't trust you right away. Not after what it's seen."
They left the bolt-room in silence.
Back near the Center, the sky had darkened again, stained rust-orange with factory haze. The buildings groaned with evening motion—freight lifts, exhaust vents, shutters closing for the night.
Orion didn't speak again until they were halfway back to the trainer sector.
"He's there," he said. "I know it."
"I believe you," Elias replied.
"I'm going to get him out."
"I know."