Chapter 1: Painting the walls red
"Want one?"
The tall man's voice was smooth, easy, as he extended a paper bag toward the young guard standing stiffly outside the unmarked building. A friendly smile creased his face, almost clashing against his deep black eyes he had tousled, shoulder-length greyish-white hair despite his noticeably sharp and youthful face. He wore a long, charcoal coat with silver buttons and a deep crimson waistcoat beneath, the sharp lines of his lean frame hidden under layered fabric. A thin hood rested flat against his shoulders. Though he moved casually, there was a subtle stiffness to his posture, as if every motion was deliberate. A slight herbal fragrance drifted from his hands, smoke curling from the thin, still-burning stick pressed between his lips.
"I've seen you out here all week," he said, popping one of the caramelized dough balls into his mouth with a satisfied hum. They were a staple of local street food, something anyone who grew up in the slums of Catao would recognize. "Just trying to be nice."
The guard hesitated, then caved—unable to resist the allure of the steaming concoction of sugar, accepting one with a sheepish smile. He didn't even finish his second bite before his knees buckled, body hitting the ground with a dull thud, foam threading from the corners of his mouth. The tall man's smile faded instantly, face sharpening into a cold, and distant gaze. He knelt down, speaking low but clear.
"Muscle relaxant. You'll be fine in a few hours," he said, wrinkling his nose at the smell now rising from the man's newly soiled trousers. "But while you're down there, maybe think about a new line of work… And some fresh clothes."
Tossing the bag full of drugged candies to the side, the tall man felt a sharp pain pulsar through his stomach, "No matter how many times it happens, it still hurts like hell for my body to expel toxins, especially with how strong I made that batch.." With a mental groan, the man draped the dark hood over his head.
The door creaked open with a soft groan as the man stepped inside, the chill of the night clashed against the stifling warmth of the building's interior. The lobby was modest and utilitarian, laid out like a low-end bank; plain walls, a single counter with a wide, angular slit for documents, and a reinforced door toward the back. An older man with a scruffy beard leaned against the frame of that door, armed with a dull, oversized dagger and a cheap, rusting pistol. He eyed the new arrival with the cautious disinterest of someone who'd seen too many lowlifes in a day.
The figure moved forward without a word, bootsteps unnervingly silent on the scuffed floor. Behind the counter, a bored-looking woman with long blonde hair tied into a bun glanced up. Her expression changed ever so slightly at the sight of the hooded figure's gaunt features and suspicious clothing but she said nothing on the matter.
"Name?" she asked, voice flat.
"Vince. No last name."
Without blinking, she slid a thin sheet and a pen across the counter. The page was plastered with rows of faces—young boys and girls, they looked to be from one of the eastern tribes with their unique eye colors. Each had bright yellow or lime green eyes and deep black hair. These were today's "Merchandise". This was a Compliance Office, the name given to the numerous slave dens in the country. They're illegal, but the government doesn't do much against them due to "inhuman" races from surrounding indigenous tribes being the main selling points.
Vince gave the page a cursory glance, then moved with inhuman precision. In one motion, he drew the bulky, crimson revolver from beneath his coat and with a loud BANG, he shot the armed man by the back door—blood, and chunks of flesh splattering the wall behind him as he crumpled to the floor. Before the woman could gasp, or scream in terror, he reached over the counter and slammed her head down into the desk with a sickening crunch that cracked the surface.
"Go ahead and press that switch under your desk," he said coldly. "You'll be dead before your boss and his men get here anyway."
He was there for business, hired to eliminate the scum who ran this business, and after a week of staying in this city looking for information, raiding one of his stores seemed like the best, and least time consuming way to find him.
The desk attendant stammered, face streaked with blood, tears and snot mixing into it as she begged. "Please—please, I didn't do anything! I just work the desk, that's it, I don't harm the kids, I swear, I just... I just take names, process papers! You don't have to—please don't kill me!"
Her hands were raised, shaking, smeared with blood from the impact. Her eyes locked with his, wide and shimmering with terror, looking for anything; remorse, hesitation, mercy. But all that met her was his cold, almost lifeless gaze.
Vince didn't respond. He just stood there, silent, gaze flat and unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood. He took the iron keys from her trembling grip like a doctor retrieving a tool, then slowly turned them over in his hand.
"I have a son," she blurted, voice cracking. "He's young, not even ten—he's sick, I'm just trying to—this job was the only way I could afford his medicine. I didn't want to be here, I didn't—!"
She gasped as the revolver rose again, barrel leveling with the center of her chest. She threw her hands up.
"I didn't hurt anyone! I swear on his life—I didn't hurt anyone! I just filed the names, please, I swear—"
"What a lousy mother, save your bullshit for the afterlife"
A single shot rang out.
Her body slumped over the counter, lifeless, crimson blood soaking into the papers beneath her and further filling the room with an iron scent. Vince stood still for a moment, letting the silence return like settling dust.
He holstered the gun with a slight wince. He had engineered the weapon a few years back with the help of a former acquaintance he met in his days serving in the army; it used his blood as a catalyst to enhance the destructive capabilities of his shots.
Vince turned toward the backroom door, the keys turned with a soft clack, the heavy mechanism inside the door unlatching with a grinding sigh. The moment the reinforced slab of metal cracked open, a suffocating wave of stale, rancid air spilled out, thick with sweat, mold, and the coppery tang of blood. Vince stepped through, his boots sliding across the concrete floor, eyes soon adjusting to the dim amber glow of the oil lamps lining the walls.
The room was long and narrow with a door at the end which probably led into an alley, the ceiling was low, packed with the kind of filth no amount of cleaning could ever erase. Along each side were rows of stacked iron cages, most barely large enough for a large hound to sit inside—much less a child. Yet they were full. Packed.
Nearly two dozen children stared back at him, though "stared" was generous. Most didn't have the strength to look up. Others sat hunched, arms wrapped around their knees, skin pale and bruised, covered in grime. They wore little more than scraps of cloth or nothing at all. Their hair was matted and lice-ridden, their thin faces sunken and ghostly
One little boy coughed violently from a corner cage, body writhing with blisters. Blood streaked down from his lips and stained the cloth he held like a ragdoll. Another girl near the front flinched the moment Vince's shadow passed over her, retreating as far back as the cage would allow.
Vince's eyes narrowed beneath the edge of his hood. A pain in his gut flared, but he pushed it aside. Rage simmered somewhere deep beneath the surface. He crouched slightly, scanning the cages. Some of these kids wouldn't make it another day. Others looked like they'd already given up.
He paused suddenly, sighing as he slowly turned around, his back facing the door leading to the front room.
Then—
BANG.
The sharp crack of a gunshot rang out like a thunderclap, reverberating off the walls.
Something hot and solid struck the back of his head, just above the neck. Pain detonated through his skull, a flash of white-hot light splitting his vision. His body jerked violently, and for a heartbeat, the world tilted downwards.
The revolver slipped from his hand as his legs gave out beneath him. He collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud, landing face-first in it's filth. Blood immediately began to pool around his head, dark and thick, seeping into the grooves of the concrete.
Three men stormed into the room, boots slamming against the stone with urgency, the echo of their arrival shattering the heavy stillness. Oil lanterns clutched in gloved hands cast wide, wavering arcs of light across the caged filth and withered bodies. Two of the men had forgettable, aged faces and wore black coats with similarly colored, cheap leather gloves wrapped around their hands.
He was clean. Too clean to be a random slum rat paid a couple of silver notes to protect a rich kid like the other two probably were.
A tailored red suit clung perfectly to his slender frame, the fine velvet catching the lamplight with each step. Silver rings glinted on his fingers, a matching chain laced through the buttons of his vest. His skin was smooth, surely attained by numerous treatments; his face had a stretched, waxen quality. His wide, flat nose sat low over a downturned mouth, and his pale gray eyes were sunken deep into his skull. He looked... inconvenienced by everything that was happening. He held a small, but elegant pistol in his hand, it was still smoking from the shot he fired into Vince's head a few moments ago.
"The kids?" he asked sharply, voice like dry paper.
"All accounted for," one of the guards answered, rushing to check the far side of the cages. The other kneeled down to a groaning child who had slumped forward. "Cage locks are solid sir."
The man in red stepped forward slowly, his gaze finally drifting to the center of the room—where Vince's body lay face-down in the grime, blood oozing from the shattered back of his skull. He sneered faintly.
"I expected more from a man arrogant enough to mess with the Blackthorn Trading Company," he muttered, disgusted, and turned his back.
Then, a sound like wet cloth tearing, followed by a slow, rubbery crack. A slick, grueling shifting of bones.
The three men froze.
Behind them, Vince twitched.
His legs spasmed first, then his back arched with violent force. Bone ground against bone as his skull reformed itself in real time, the gaping hole between his eyes folding shut in a slow, brutal reconstruction. Torn flesh crawled together, veins rethreading like worms beneath the skin. One of his eyes, dim and glassy, flicked sharply into focus.
"Fuck... that hurts..." Vince rasped, dragging a bloody hand to his temple. He winced hard, pressing fingers against the partially healed wound. Every time he came back from a wound that major, it felt like knives were dancing through his nerves, stabbing him a thousand times.
The man in red turned, expression twisting with something between shock and fury.
Vince met his eyes, grinned through the blood, and stood. "Ah, there you are"