Alaric had never liked the Drowned Market even on its quietest day, but today it seethed like a nest of hornets. The bazaar sprawled beneath the jagged ribs of a collapsed overpass, shrouded in damp gloom. Rusted scaffolds formed crooked aisles, while battered generators spat sparks and oily smoke that stung the eyes. People pressed shoulder to shoulder—scavengers, fence-merchants, gang lookouts—all bartering scraps of tech or pilfered food for a few ragged credits.
He kept his hood low and his new combat knife hidden, gliding through the chaos with the ease of someone who had spent a lifetime dodging trouble. When someone's gaze lingered too long, he shifted with the crowd, melting into another current of bodies.
The burner phone in his pocket buzzed.1 NEW MESSAGE: Locker 88, west wall. Code 9142.
West wall. Alaric threaded past stalls selling fried mystery meat and counterfeit pills until a bank of rust-eaten lockers emerged from a cracked concrete pillar. He brushed away grime to find number 88, entered the code, and eased the door open.
Inside sat a matte-black case the size of a lunchbox—no markings, no weight to speak of. Whatever lay inside was valuable precisely because no one should look at it. He slid the case into a sling bag, closed the locker, and let the crowd swallow him again.
Two exits lay ahead: the main ramp patrolled by crooked police, or the Edge Tunnels—abandoned service passages that spider-webbed beneath Zenith's underbelly. He chose the tunnels. Less light, fewer witnesses, and plenty of shadows to hide in.
A vendor distracted with a rowdy customer let him slip behind a tarp, pop a maintenance hatch, and drop into darkness. The heavy panel clanged shut above, muting the world to echoes and dripping water. A faint lime-green glow from his system-overlay mapped a route: east through tunnel S-12 to an old commuter platform marked as the rendezvous.
He padded forward, boots splashing quietly. Every twenty paces he halted, listening. Somewhere far off, metal screeched; rats scuttled along pipes. Once, a low gurgling growl vibrated through the walls. Zenith's forgotten depths bred things best left unseen.
Half an hour in, the overlay blinked red: Path compromised. Voices drifted ahead—two, maybe three, overlapping in rough amusement. Alaric crouched behind a crumbling support column. Orange emergency light bled into the chamber beyond, revealing two men in scavenged combat armor, rifles slung, cards spread on an upturned crate. Crimson Jacks—the gang Kieran had warned him about.
Backing out risked losing time. Fighting risked everything. He glanced upward: a ventilation duct, grille hanging loose. With practiced speed he climbed a rusted ladder, eased the grate aside, and wriggled into the metal throat. Dust choked his lungs, but he inched forward until he passed directly over the card table. One guard belched; the other cursed a losing hand.
He dropped from a maintenance hatch fifty meters farther on, landing soft.[Stealth Proficiency +0.9%] scrolled across his vision. A small, silent victory.
The rendezvous platform smelled of soot and old oil. Rail lines vanished into darkness at both ends. Alone in the gloom stood a tall woman clad in patchwork armor, her face hidden behind a featureless mask. She regarded him without a word.
"You're early," she said at last, voice filtered through a tinny modulator.
"You're alone," Alaric replied, keeping the case visible but close.
"One of us has something to lose," she answered.He held out the package; she took it, popped the lid, and gave a single curt nod. From her coat she produced a second burner phone, tapped a command, then tossed it into the shadows where it shattered against stone.
Alaric's own phone vibrated.Mission confirmed. Credits on hold.
A second notification bloomed before his eyes:[Quest Complete: Shadow Delivery]Reward: +1 Stat Point
He gave the masked woman a shallow nod and turned to leave. Behind him, footsteps receded; when he looked back, she was gone.
Back in the open air, Zenith roared—horns, distant sirens, the endless hum of generators powering neon advertisements high above. Yet Alaric felt oddly separate, as though a pane of glass cut him off from the crowd. He ducked into a recessed doorway and summoned his status.
[Available Stat Points: 1]
Strength and knife work had carried him so far, but tonight's silent crawl through vents reminded him that speed saved lives. He allocated the point to Agility.
A tingling spread through his limbs—muscles loosening, joints feeling spring-loaded. The city seemed to slow a fraction, opportunities widening like cracks.
[Agility Upgraded: E → E+]
The improvement drew a tight grin. Every edge counted.
Traffic drowned the alley mouth in a wash of colored light, and with it came that prickling at his nape again—danger sense whispering of eyes fixed on his back. He pretended to fumble with his phone's map, using the reflection in the screen to scan behind him. A cloaked silhouette lingered at the far end of the alley. Too still for a wandering pedestrian.
The watcher from before? He couldn't be sure. But whoever it was had tailed him from the tunnels to the surface without a single misstep. That alone marked them as no ordinary thug.
Alaric slipped deeper into the alley. When he emerged on the next street, the silhouette was gone—but the tension clung to him like spider silk. The city's predators had noticed him. Sooner or later, one would test his knife.
He exhaled slowly, letting the night air fill his lungs. Lia's face flashed in his mind—bright hair, fierce devotion, that secret yearning she tried to hide. He had to keep moving, keep gaining ground, so one day she could walk Zenith without fear.
Tonight had been simple: deliver a box, earn a point. Tomorrow, the stakes would climb again. He would be ready.
Because predators ruled Zenith. And he intended to climb the food chain until no one dared hunt the Vale siblings ever again.