Isabella stepped lightly over what used to be a glass-top table, now half-lted and collapsed onto the marble floor.
Her boots made a quiet crunch against the scattered debris—shards of blackened crystal, scorched glass, and a layer of soot that still carried the scent of chemical accelerants.
This place had once pulsed with life and dirty money, a nightclub for the underground elite.
It had high ceilings, velvet booths with silent deals going down, girls dancing under gold-filtered lights while guns traded hands two levels below.
Now, it was silent—the kind of silence that only ca after fire, chaos, and a rushed exit.
Whoever torched the place hadn’t done a great job. The flas had done damage, yes—but they hadn’t consud everything.
She could still sll top-shelf liquor soaked into the carpet, still see the dark stains on the floor where bodies had been dragged out, or maybe deeper in.
The bones of the building still spoke. She just had to listen.
She moved slowly, not out of fear, but habit. Nobody would dare lay a finger on her here—not anymore.
But she wasn’t in a hurry. She was thinking. Watching and reading the room the way only soone raised inside the ss could. Other people missed the details. She didn’t.
The tables and chipboards were gone, too. But the walls still had thick soundproofing foam lined between support panels.
The kind you didn’t use unless you were saying things you never wanted repeated. Several interior doors had been welded shut, tal edges fused into fras.
That wasn’t cult work. Cultists didn’t weld. They tore, they burned, they bled things out in ssy spirals.
Whoever did this wasn’t improvising. They were trying to contain sothing—or keep it contained.
At the far back, past the main bar and what was left of the VIP corridor, the lounge space still held its bones.
The air here was stale, unmoved for days. One chandelier—half-burned, crooked—hung like a dying ornant from the ceiling.
Below it, Talvek sat lazily, one leg propped up on the bar counter like a sofa.
She didn’t say his na.
He looked up the mont she entered. That was all it took—no greetings needed.
He stood and dusted off his pants with the back of his hand, as if the soot staining them would co off with a few lazy swipes. "Didn’t think you’d show up in person," he said.
"You called," she replied, voice even.
He gave a small shrug. "Sure. Just figured you’d send one of your ghosts."
"I didn’t bring my team," she said as she stepped forward. "That’s personal enough."
He gestured to a shattered bottle near his boot. "Was gonna offer a drink, but this place... well, not exactly stocked anymore."
She didn’t even glance at it. "Talk."
Talvek leaned back against the bar. He tried to keep his expression smooth, but his hands betrayed him. They fidgeted and tapped. He wasn’t calm—not really.
"I’ve been running low-tier hauls," he started. "Off-the-books stuff. Scraps. Wiring coils. Leftover cores. Just enough to keep a few old routes from going cold."
She said nothing.
"Then, last month, I thought I’d push into Sector 8. Near the fractured line."
She raised a brow. "Why?"
"Because all the other crews pulled out. Like, all of them. At once. No chatter, no warnings. Just... gone."
She tilted her head slightly. He saw it and kept going.
"When the big boys go dark that fast, it ans territory’s shifting. So I checked the old caches, figured I’d grab anything they left behind.
Found a few untouched crates. Looked clean. But just as I’m hauling one out, I get blocked."
She waited.
"Not rcs. Not cult freaks. Beasts," he said. "Big ones. Seven, maybe eight feet. Armor scales, arms like slabs.
They walked upright, but not like people. Like things pretending to be people. Moved slow, but not dumb."
Her face didn’t move, but her eyes narrowed slightly.
"And?"
"They didn’t hit . Didn’t even threaten. They just... stood there. Then one of them stepped forward.
Tilted its head. Gave off a sound. Not speech exactly, but not random noise either. Rhythmic. asured. Like... negotiation."
She folded her arms.
Talvek drew in a breath. "They offered sothing. Opened a sealed crate. Inside was a container filled with blood.
But not raw. Refined. Stabilized. Dark red with veins of sothing silver moving through it."
She blinked. Just once.
"They wanted a trade," he continued. "In exchange, they asked for tech. Power cores. Old-world comms.
Cold fusion cells. But no weapons. No ammo. Just tech. Like they were collecting energy systems."
She said nothing.
"I ran," he added, a little too quickly. "Didn’t take the deal."
She gave him a long, flat stare.
He smiled weakly. "I’m not stupid. If they can recognize batteries by model, they can probably track my scent."
"You kept the logs?"
He nodded and pulled a small drive from his jacket. "Only because I was too scared to delete them."
She didn’t take it right away.
"Why give this to ?"
"I want to live," he said.
She stared.
"That’s not a real reason," she said. "That’s survival instinct."
He hesitated, voice dropping. "Because I looked into the signal they used. And the na. It’s been showing up in other places.
Encrypted cult channels. Shipnt logs. Even so intercepted communications between old factions. It’s not local. Not sothing we know."
She didn’t move.
"They called themselves the Red Vulture Pact."
That made her look at him fully.
"I’ve never heard of it," she said.
"Exactly," he replied.
She reached out and took the drive from his hand.
"I’ll validate it."
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for minutes.
"And if it’s fake," she added, voice casual, "I’ll string you up by your tongue and leave you hanging over what’s left of your crew."
He stopped breathing for a second. Then gave a tight nod.
She turned and left without another word.
—
The comm van was parked two blocks out, buried in shadow behind a gutted bank. It still had power.
Inside, Isabella dropped into the main seat, crossed one leg over the other, and slid the drive into the console port.
The screen blinked to life.
Not text.
Video.
Helt-cam. Grainy, rough footage—corrupted at the corners, but watchable.
Reviews
All reviews (0)