Every journey has its beginning, and its ending.
Every meeting, its farewell.
So let us meet again—someplace, somewhere, someway, somehow.
August XX06, 11:58 PM
The Confederated Reaches — Capital City of Athara
The rats knew the truth of the city.
They scurried through the crowds with purpose, weaving between legs and briefcases, navigating the arteries of Athara with an understanding that surpassed any map.
The people above paid them no mind.
Why would they?
In a city that never sleeps, everyone is too busy chasing their own destination to notice what scurries beneath.
Smog hung in the air like a curtain.
Debris and pollutants mixed with the endless chatter—a symphony of urban decay that had long since become white noise.
Perfect cover for those who wished to move unseen.
The men in tailored suits slipped through the crowds without a second glance.
In Athara, minding your own business wasn't courtesy—it was survival.
The metro station swallowed them whole.
Step by step, they descended past graffiti-stained walls—territorial markings of gangs long dissolved, dreams long abandoned.
The trains clattered past with mechanical indifference, their rhythm like a heartbeat counting down to an inevitable end.
At the bottom, in the shadowed corner where fluorescent lights flickered and died, their counterparts waited.
"Punctual as ever."
The voice came from the darkness before the figures emerged.
Young men in tattered clothing—casual, unkempt, the kind of poverty that clings to skin like a second layer.
They held a briefcase like it was treasure.
Perhaps to them, it was.
They expected warmth. Acknowledgment, at least.
They received only cold, unified stares.
"Uh... well, we got the goods."
One of them cleared his throat, stepping forward under the weight of those gazes.
His companion folded his arms beside him, trying to project confidence neither truly felt.
"Wasn't easy, you know? We had to hit every back-alley doctor in town to find someone willing to even look at that list you gave us."
"Yeah, now my legs hurt like a bitch for it. You really could've given us more time to work with."
Another one whined, as if complaint could rewrite the terms already set.
Silence stretched between them like a blade.
Then, one of the suited men stepped forward.
His voice was winter itself.
"Well earned, I'm sure. Open the case. We'll confirm the contents."
Sly grins spread across their faces—the kind born from desperation mistaken for cleverness.
They opened the briefcase, displaying its contents with the pride of children showing off stolen candy.
"So... we good for a million?"
The suited man's expression didn't change.
"And where did you pull that number from? We agreed on 100,000 down, 300,000 on completion."
"Well, that was then. This is now."
The bravado was cracking at the edges.
"Not fair we busted our asses for people like you for chump change. Treat us nice and maybe we can make this something special."
The men in suits moved with tailored, uniformed precision—a choreography rehearsed in darker places than this.
Custom handheld magic cannons emerged from beneath their coats, barrels glinting under dying fluorescent light.
Armed.
Aimed.
Absolute.
"You want something special? Then drink your fill."
The lead suit's voice carried no malice.
That would have required seeing them as human.
"But don't worry—we'll leave one of you alive to test the product."
As the train clattered past the station in Athara, the city that never sleeps, no one heard the screams that rang out from dying lips.
Teenagers who asked for more than they could handle.
Teenagers who didn't understand that in Athara, ambition without power is just another form of suicide.
And in Athara, the city that never sleeps, no one thought to check what might remain of them in that dusty, dirty corridor—the one so many pass through every single day.
After all, why would they?
The rats already knew the answer.
[End of Prologue]