The city of Velvora had many names.
Some called it the Neon Womb. Others, a Capital of Crime. The politically correct ones went with "An Independent Urban Sector With Dynamic Socio-Economic Tensions." But to most of its citizens?
It was just a giant, overpriced dump.
And Asher Blackwood stood on top of that dump. Literally. The rooftop of St. Craven's Discount Funeral Home & Electronics Repair gave a perfect view of Velvora's glittering skyline—if you could look past the billboard advertising "Toe Waxing for Men – Now Half Off!"
Rain drizzled lazily as if even the clouds were too tired to pour properly. Neon signs flickered like hungover fireflies, while the streets below teemed with thugs, smugglers, weirdly attractive politicians, and at least one rogue goose with a bounty on its head.
Asher exhaled slowly, hands buried in the pockets of his half-burnt trench coat. He was twenty-three, half-dead inside, and probably allergic to emotional stability. Also, mildly cursed.
"I need a vacation," he muttered.
Behind him, a voice replied, "You said that last week. Then you tried to meditate in a graveyard and got mugged by a raccoon cult."
Asher turned his head just enough to see Rachel Vex, his sort-of-friend and definitely-ex-something, leaning against the old antenna. She wore tactical boots, a sarcastic smile, and absolutely zero respect for personal space.
"I'm telling you," he said, "those raccoons were sent by someone. Probably the Syndicate."
Rachel blinked. "The crime syndicate?"
"No," Asher said, dead serious. "The Chicken Cartel."
Rachel sighed. "You really need sleep."
He ignored her. "Something's wrong with this city. I can feel it. Like… there's a weird shift. Politicians are getting too nice. Crime bosses are giving charity. I even saw a street magician get a government grant."
"That's just Velvora's mayor trying to raise his approval rating before the next scandal."
"Exactly," Asher whispered, eyes narrowing.
Rachel tilted her head. "So… what's the plan, Sherlock?"
Asher took a dramatic pause. "We infiltrate the Chicken Cartel."
"…You're not serious."
"I'm always serious."
"You once tried to arrest a guy because his coffee was 'too suspicious.'"
"It was suspicious," he said, voice rising. "It had glitter in it. Glitter. Who drinks glitter, Rachel?"
"…Strippers?"
A beat.
"Okay, fair."
Down below, in the back alleys of the Velvet Market District, shady figures were already moving. The streets of Velvora were always awake—selling info, trading secrets, bribing officers, running karaoke dens. And beneath all of it, something darker simmered.
But right now?
Right now, the biggest crime was the mayor's face being printed on spaghetti-flavored breath mints. A new campaign strategy, apparently.
Asher's eyes scanned the skyline. Something felt… off. Like an itch in the back of his mind, a name he couldn't remember. A shadow from the past or a forgotten debt coming to collect.
"You know," Rachel said casually, "you've been brooding here for hours. You hungry?"
Asher blinked. "Do vending machines count as food?"
"They do not," she replied. "Come on. I know a place. Good ramen, low on crime, only one assassination attempt per visit."
"Sold."
They started walking toward the rusted stairwell, boots echoing in the drizzle.
"Hey Rachel?" he asked.
"Yeah?"
"If I die mysteriously tonight, avenge me by destroying all glitter-based coffee shops."
"…You got it, drama king."
But somewhere in the city—beyond the glow, behind the noise—something old had begun to stir.
A whisper. A name.Not his name.
Not yet.
But it would be.
Soon.
[End of Chapter 0]
Preview of Next Chapter:"Chapter 1 – Ramen, Racketeers, and Repressed Trauma"
Asher tries to enjoy a peaceful meal, but ends up in a turf war between a noodle chef and a rogue exorcist. Secrets start spilling (along with broth), and a strange encounter hints at a power far beyond Velvora's ridiculous politics.