The crescent moon hung in the sky, its pale glow swallowed by the sprawling black of night.
London had shed its murky gray façade for a darker, more honest shade of shadow.
Along the banks of the Thames, the gnarled silhouettes of buildings clawed at the sky, their jagged outlines casting long, trembling shadows over the streets.
The city's veins bled through the night—
And Lorien walked among them, the brim of his hat tugged low over his sharp gaze.
Hanmor Street, No. 1145
According to the waiter at the café, this was "Kore Brotherhood" territory.
More importantly, it housed a black market.
A real black market—
Where absolutely everything was for sale.
Including the kind of merchandise that made the law uneasy and morality irrelevant.
Simply put—
You could buy anything here.
Except a conscience.
From the outside, the black market fronted as a bar.
The interior was dim, the lighting so poor that patrons were little more than silhouettes, their faces obscured by the shadows between tables.
Only a handful of people sat scattered throughout the space—
Business, at a glance, seemed abysmally slow.
At the center of the room, a raised platform suggested a stage for performances.
Lorien imagined the kind of "entertainment" typically showcased here.
He had just missed the show—
A shame.
Still, he hadn't come for that.
He approached the bar counter, where a bartender, dressed like a cowboy, polished a glass.
"What can I get you, sir?"
"What do you have?"
Lorien wasn't in the mood for pleasantries.
In truth—
He wasn't here to shop.
He was here to pick a fight.
Specifically, he wanted to test out his new abilities—
And what better test subjects than a few helpful gangsters?
"Ah, a first-timer?" The bartender set down his glass, his grin widening. "Well, you've come to the right place. Here, we sell nearly anything you can imagine—firearms, narcotics, opium tinctures, pleasure services…"
Lorien raised an eyebrow.
So blatant?
No secret handshakes? No passcodes?
You call this a black market?
He must have visibly hesitated, because the bartender chuckled.
"Worried about the police?"
"Aren't you?" Lorien replied.
The man laughed.
"Sir, this is East London."
"If anyone should be running, it's them."
Lorien kept his expression neutral.
The bartender leaned in conspiratorially.
"If, by some rare chance, we don't have what you need—" he shrugged, "we offer a more... specialized service. Name your price, and we'll acquire it for you through... alternative methods."
Lorien translated the "alternative methods" in his head:
"Theft or robbery."
The bartender wasn't even hiding it.
Unbelievable.
The more he saw of East London, the less faith he had in the concept of "law."
Still, he played along.
"I need a firearm—something compact, discreet, but with enough stopping power to be... persuasive."
As a private investigator, he really should have owned a gun already.
He was practically an embarrassment to his profession.
"Then you're in luck."
The bartender disappeared into a backroom.
A few minutes later, he returned with several small wooden cases, placing them on the counter.
Click.
The first case snapped open, revealing a sleek, long-barreled revolver with a deep mahogany grip.
"A modified 'Cavalry Revolver,'" the bartender explained. "A powerful sidearm with a 20–30% longer range than standard pistols. Uses smokeless powder cartridges—loads seven rounds at a time."
He tapped the engraving along the barrel.
"This model was once issued to the Manchester Cavalry Regiment—phased out due to cost but still beloved by collectors. Some call it the 'Dragoon.' Others—'The Roaring Lion.'"
Lorien tested the weight in his palm.
It felt... right.
"How much?"
"Three hundred fifty shillings. Comes with twenty rounds of ammunition. Additional bullets are available at a 20% discount."
Lorien did the math.
That was thirty-five pounds—
An amount most working-class men would need half a year to save.
And it was probably a fraction of the gun's actual production cost.
Arms dealing, it seemed, was a highly lucrative business.
Still—
The revolver wasn't cheap.
But the problem wasn't the gun—
It was him.
He was too damn poor.
"Show me the next one."
The bartender complied, unveiling a sleek, black pistol.
"This is the Tulip, a personal defense firearm developed by 'Silent International.' Widely favored among spies and private detectives for its high performance."
Lorien lifted the pistol.
"Price?"
"Two hundred twenty shillings. But—unlike the Dragoon—no free ammunition."
Lorien inspected the remaining two options before making his decision.
He tapped the first gun.
"I'll take this one. The 'Dragoon.' Plus fifty extra rounds and a holster."
The bartender grinned.
"An excellent choice, sir. You may question the morality of Manchester men—but never their taste in weaponry. The Dragoon is a true masterpiece of the revolver age."
Lorien nodded approvingly.
He turned toward Jack, who merely shook his head.
"I won't be needing one."
As the bartender packaged the ammunition and holster separately, Lorien retrieved his wallet, preparing to pay—
But before he could hand over the money, he calmly opened the revolver, loading all seven rounds with practiced ease.
Click. Click. Click.
Before the bartender could react, Lorien snapped the cylinder shut with a sharp flick.
"A masterpiece, indeed."
The bartender swallowed hard, his forehead beading with sweat.
His colleagues, previously leaning forward, froze in place.
Lorien's expression was calm, unreadable—
But the gun was very real.
"The bar belongs to the Brotherhood," he mused, *"but your lives? Those belong to you. And those are worth protecting, aren't they?"
The bartender nodded fervently.
"Absolutely, sir."
Then, without hesitation, he raised both hands in surrender.
"The boss is upstairs. Second floor. Name's Oran Smith—one of the Kore Brotherhood's lieutenants. Handles all bar operations and keeps the cash safe.* If you're looking for money—he's the one you want."*
Lorien paused.
"..."
That was a little too fast.
Too damn practiced.
He narrowed his eyes.
"You've done this before, haven't you?"