They descended into the smog. The Industrial District was a graveyard of rusted machinery and crumbling brick. The air here tasted of metal; it coated Gazelle's tongue and stung her eyes. People hurried past them, their heads bowed against the drizzle. They were gaunt, their skin gray and sallow, their clothes hanging off their frames like rags. No one spoke. No one laughed. They moved with the mechanical efficiency of people who had forgotten what it meant to live and were simply waiting to die.
Gazelle watched them through the slit of her hood. She wanted to stop. She wanted to grab one of them and ask, Who are you? Are you happy? But she knew the answer. They were the background characters of a tragedy. They were the embodiments of her own apathy.
"Keep moving," Raven murmured, his voice a low growl. He nudged her forward when she slowed down to look at a beggar sitting by a burning trash can. "You can't save them. Not today."
"They look so hollow," Gazelle whispered, tears pricking her eyes.
"They are what you made them," Raven replied coldly. He didn't say it to be cruel; he said it as a statement of fact. "This is the world without the filter of your medication. Ugly, isn't it?"
Gazelle bit her lip, the guilt heavy in her stomach. Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through her chest, sharper than before. It felt like a rib had snapped inward, puncturing her lung. She gasped, stumbling. Her boot caught on a loose cobblestone, and she pitched forward.
She expected to hit the filthy pavement. Instead, a strong arm clamped around her waist, hauling her up before her knees could touch the ground. Raven didn't hold her gently. He gripped her with bruising force, pulling her into the shadow of a doorway.
"Easy," he hissed, checking the street to see if anyone had noticed. No one had. Indifference was the currency of this city.
Gazelle clutched his forearm, her knuckles white. "I... I can't breathe." Her vision swam. Black spots danced in front of her eyes. The noise of the city, the distant sirens, the hum of machinery, faded into a high-pitched ring.
Raven cursed under his breath. He looked at her pale, sweating face. He didn't look worried; he looked annoyed. Like a mechanic looking at a car that had broken down in a bad neighborhood. "You're not dying here," he ordered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial of green liquid, one of Moira's concoctions. He uncorked it with his teeth and pressed it to her lips. "Drink. All of it."
Gazelle swallowed the foul-tasting liquid, choking slightly. It burned its way down, but almost instantly, the vice around her heart loosened. She sucked in a greedy breath of the smoggy air.
Raven watched her for a second, his dark eyes critical. "Can you stand?"
"Yes," she whispered, though her legs felt like jelly.
"Then stand," he said, releasing her. He stepped back, re-establishing the distance between them. "We're close to the Northern District. If you collapse there, the vultures will pick you clean before you hit the ground."
He turned and walked away. Gazelle leaned against the brick wall for a second, gathering her strength, then forced herself to follow the man who hated her almost as much as he felt obligated to save her.
Crossing into the Northern District was like stepping onto another planet. The transition was abrupt. One moment, they were in the grime of the slums; the next, the pavement was smooth black stone, slick with rain and reflecting the blinding lights of holograms above. Here, the air smelled of synthetic lavender and expensive exhaust. The buildings were taller, sleeker, made of glass that seemed to drink the light.
The people here didn't keep their heads down. They strutted. They wore neon-infused furs, velvet suits, and chrome accessories. Their laughter was sharp, brittle, and cruel. They looked like beautiful sharks swimming in a tank of blood.
"The Red Velvet is three blocks up," Raven murmured, keeping to the shadows of the storefronts. "It's Alexander's fortress disguised as a playground."
"How do we get in?" Gazelle asked, eyeing a group of men with silver implants in their faces who were watching the street. "The front door looks impossible."
"We don't use the front door," Raven said. "I spent years fighting in the underground rings of this district. I know how the rats get in and out."
He led her down a narrow alleyway that ran parallel to the main boulevard. It was darker here; the neon lights blocked by the towering structures. The alley smelled of rotting flowers and stale champagne, the refuse of the rich.
Raven stopped at a heavy steel door marked SERVICE ONLY. There was a keypad next to it, glowing red. "It's electronic," Gazelle whispered. "We don't have a code."
Raven didn't answer. He reached into his boot and pulled out his knife. But instead of attacking the keypad, he jammed the blade into the narrow gap between the door and the frame. He twisted it with a sickening crunch of metal, then slammed his shoulder against the door. It didn't budge.
He stepped back, exhaled sharply, and kicked it. Once. Twice. On the third strike, right near the lock, something inside the mechanism shattered, and the door groaned open.
"Subtlety isn't always the answer," he muttered, sheathing his knife. "Move."
They slipped inside.
The corridor beyond was stark concrete, illuminated by flickering fluorescent strips. The thumping bass of the club's music vibrated through the floor, a constant, rhythmic heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump. It synced with Gazelle's own erratic pulse, making her nauseous.
"This is the service level," Raven said, his voice low. "Kitchens, storage, staff rooms. We need to get to the freight elevator at the end of the hall. It goes straight to the penthouse."
"The penthouse?"
"Alexander doesn't mingle with the common trash," Raven said. "He watches from above. Like a god."
They moved quickly, Raven checking every corner before signaling her to advance. They passed a kitchen where exhausted staff were shouting over sizzling pans, but no one noticed two shadowed figures slipping past the open door.
They reached the freight elevator. Raven hit the call button. They waited. The seconds stretched into hours. Gazelle watched the numbers above the elevator tick down slowly. 5... 4... 3...
"Raven," she whispered. "It feels too easy."
Raven stood with his back to the wall, his hand hovering over his knife. His eyes were narrowed. "I know. There should be guards here. There should be security." He looked at the elevator doors. "It's quiet. Too quiet."
Ding. The elevator doors slid open. The car was empty.
Raven hesitated. He sniffed the air. Then, he stepped inside, motioning for her to follow. "Get in. If the doors close, we're separated."
Gazelle stepped into the metal box. Raven hit the button for the top floor. The doors slid shut, sealing them in. The elevator began to rise. Gazelle leaned against the metal railing, her legs trembling. "What if he's not there?"
"He's there," Raven said grimly, watching the floor numbers rise. "He's always there. Watching his kingdom rot."
Ding. The elevator stopped. The doors opened.
Gazelle expected a hallway. She expected another door. Instead, the doors opened directly into a massive, opulent room. The entire far wall was floor-to-ceiling glass, overlooking the rain-soaked city. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. A velvet throne sat in the center of the room, facing the window.
But it wasn't empty. Waiting for them, leaning casually against the elevator frame on either side, were two men. They were identical, except for their hair. One had hair as white as bone; the other, black as coal. They wore matching silk suits that looked like they cost more than Gazelle's entire life.
The Twins. Sebastian and Julian.
Sebastian, the white-haired one, smiled, twirling a butterfly knife between his fingers. "Ding dong," he sang. "The delivery is here."
Julian, the black-haired one, didn't smile. He just stared at Raven with dead, shark-like eyes. "You're trespassing, Cheater," Julian said. His voice was monotone, terrifyingly calm. "And you brought a pet."
Raven moved instantly, shoving Gazelle behind him and drawing his knife. "We're here to see Alexander," Raven growled.
"The Prince is busy," Sebastian giggled, stepping closer. "But he told us to expect guests. He said he felt a... disturbance."
"He said he smelled a rat," Julian corrected.
Before Raven could react, a third figure stepped out from the shadows near the throne. It was Vermont. The man with the pale green hair and the serious, scholarly face. He held a handgun, sleek, silver, and pointed directly at Gazelle's chest.
"Drop the knife, Raven," Vermont said calmly. "Or the girl dies before she hits the floor."
Raven froze. His muscles were locked, his knuckles white on the hilt of his blade. He calculated the distance. He could take Sebastian. Maybe he could dodge Julian. But he couldn't outrun a bullet aimed at Gazelle.
Slowly, agonizingly, Raven opened his hand. The knife clattered to the marble floor.
"Good boy," Sebastian cooed.
"Bring them," a voice called out from the darkness of the throne.
The chair spun around slowly. Alexander Morgan sat there, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He looked exactly as Gazelle had imagined him, beautiful, sharp, and utterly hollow. His ice-blue eyes swept over Raven, dismissive and bored. Then, they landed on Gazelle.
He didn't blink. He didn't smile. He stared at her with an intensity that made her feel like he was dissecting her soul.
"Well, well," Alexander whispered, his voice smooth as velvet wrapped around a razor blade. He stood up, walking slowly toward them, the Twins parting to let him pass. He stopped inches from Gazelle, ignoring Raven entirely.
"You look lost, little girl," Alexander said softly. "Did you take a wrong turn in your dreams?"
Gazelle couldn't speak. She was paralyzed by the realization that the monster standing in front of her, the monster she had created in her mind to be the embodiment of emptiness, was now looking at her not with hatred, but with a terrifying, hungry recognition.
"Or," Alexander leaned down, his lips brushing her ear, "did you finally come to fill the hole you left in me?"
He pulled back, his eyes gleaming. "Welcome to the Red Velvet, my Creator. I hope you're ready to bleed."