"Welcome to the esteemed Elijah Murray's Charity Gala."
A round of applause rang out as champagne glasses clinked together.
Well, this is what I heard at least from the outside where I was.
Standing under the golden archway of the Starling Crown Tower's entrance, I adjusted the black valet cap on my head and gave the door attendant a casual nod. The guy didn't even look at my face. No one ever looked at the help. That was the point.
The Gala was all lights, camera, and bullshit.
Tuxedoed elites swept into the building like royalty, their perfume strong enough to smother the stench of the Glades they refused to acknowledge even existed.
I watched them for a moment through the glass before slipping past the doors, my stolen ID badge bouncing lightly against my chest.
"Jamie, F."
No photo. Just a name. That was all they needed.
Security inside was loose where it needed to be, and suffocating where it mattered. Just how Elijah liked it. I knew this because I used to work for the bastards hosting this event.
And Pinkman filled in the rest.
Knowledge.
That was my weapon. Not a gun. Not a knife. Not even that rusted-out crossbow I had back in the closet.
Information.
And right now, it was what kept me breathing.
Every thug in the Glades was out looking for me. Some wanted the bounty. Others just wanted to cozy up to Black Heron for the perks. Walking through their front door was suicide.
But walking in from above? As a nameless valet? That was strategy.
I maneuvered through the buzzing lobby with practiced ease, brushing shoulders with millionaires while invisible to their eyes. Just another body with a job to do. And I had one, too. It just wasn't parking cars.
I made my way past the crystal chandelier hanging like a dagger from the ceiling and turned down a quiet corridor off the main floor. Velvet ropes kept people from straying, but this hallway wasn't guarded—until the very end.
Two men in black suits stood at attention beside a mahogany door that practically screamed "This is a restricted area, kid."
Here it was.
The staircase to hell.
I approached despite their warning.
One of them stepped forward, hand on the pistol beneath his coat. "Didn't you hear me…"
I didn't hesitate, and before they could finish their sentence, my lips moved.
"Through shadow and smoke, we feast."
A pause.
The guards looked at each other. One squinted slightly, but neither moved. They didn't know my face. But they knew of the words I spoke.
Click.
The door creaked open.
And they let me through.
The stairwell was dimly lit, industrial, and cold.
I didn't waste time.
As soon as the door shut behind me while the guards stared on with a hint of confusion, I peeled off the valet cap and slipped a black bandana from my pocket, tying it tight around the lower half of my face.
The air felt thicker as I descended—almost sticky. I passed rusted pipes, old graffiti, the lingering stench of smoke and metal.
I reached into my waistband and tugged out a crumpled baseball cap, shoving it down low over my eyes.
Just in case.
Had to be fast. The real valet, Jamie F., that I knocked out wouldn't stay asleep forever.
Every footstep down the spiraling concrete staircase brought me deeper into Black Heron territory.
I could hear it now—a murmur at first, then chatter. The auction.
My breath hitched as I reached the final landing.
The air was a cocktail of blood, sweat, and gun oil.
The underground chamber was wide and low-lit, tucked beneath the Tower like a rotting tooth under a golden crown.
I stayed in the shadows, just another shape among many. There were dozens of figures standing around, most in groups. Some with scars. Others with tattoos. All of them carried heat.
Criminals.
All of them.
Different factions. Different gangs. The Grinders. The Nail. The Crows. Even a few Serpent Syndicate thugs from down south. They all stood around holding briefcases, laughing, sizing each other up.
I scanned the sea of faces, careful to keep my head low.
Everyone was distracted with themselves, not quick to notice the random frail short dude with a cap slipping past them all, not to mention the person underneath the disguise.
And then the lights dimmed.
The crowd hushed.
A spotlight beamed to the small stage at the front of the chamber.
And there he was.
He didn't walk onto the stage.
He leapt.
A clean arc through the air. Fluid. Precise.
The sound of his shoes striking the wooden platform echoed.
Tap.
He stood straight, arms outstretched like a messiah.
Black mask. White pinstripe suit.
The mask was bone-like, sculpted in cruel angles, its surface forged from matte obsidian-colored alloy.
It didn't shine. It devoured light. Jagged cheekbones. Deep sockets. A mouth twisted in permanent sneer, etched teeth grinning like death.
I froze.
Elijah Murray. Or as they knew him here—
Black Mask.
He opened his arms.
"Welcome, crooks, thugs and criminals of the Glades," he boomed like a showman, voice enhanced, reverberating through the room, "to the future."
The crowd murmured. No one clapped.
"We all know why we're here so let's get straight to the point, shall we. Now, I know what you're all thinking. One item? That's all? Just one?"
He chuckled.
"This is an auction, you say. But no. This isn't a charity garage sale, boys and girls. This… is business."
He stepped aside, revealing a single glass case behind him, glowing faintly with cold blue light.
"You all know the reason I have been able to reach such stature. Other than me being perfect at everything I do, there was a little helper I had along my journey."
No one said anything. They knew the answer. How couldn't they?
The trump card that put Black Heron at the top.
"Three gangs will be walking away with a continuous supply of Cicada!"
Whispers rose.
Some were confused why Black Heron was giving away their treasure while others debated whether it was the real deal or not.
As for me, I… already knew.
Pinkman told me everything.
This wasn't about selling Cicada.
Not really.
This was nothing but an advertisement for the bastard.
Elijah was giving them trash.
A diluted version. Still addictive. Still potent. But nowhere near what he kept for himself.
He couldn't sell his product in the other gangs' territories, however, upon selling the watered-down product now, and once everyone got a taste and built dependency, with rumours he planned to build soon, they'd eventually come to seek the real deal.
Pure Cicada. His product.
Stronger. Pricier. Exclusive.
A monopoly.
A trap.
"It's the reason I stand at the top. The reason you could never reach me."
The gangsters grumbled under their breath, clicking their teeth. However, they knew better than to start a fight in a rival gangs' territory.
However, it seemed like one particular gangster didn't get the memo.
"What the hell is this? Who do you think you are, sellin' us this one-time miracle drug like it's a damn golden ticket?"
Black Mask didn't blink.
-BANG!
Gunshot. Echoing thunder. The man dropped.
I jumped. My heart punched against my ribs.
"Anyone know that man?" Black Mask asked, still holding the smoking pistol.
Silence.
"Good."
He tossed the gun aside, letting it clatter across the stage.
"Now. For those of you wise enough to stay quiet… here's the deal. You can bid for samples. Or, if you're serious, you bid for the whole damn batch. Winner takes it all. Losers… get to watch their empires rot."
The room stayed quiet. Thick tension. Predatory stares. Greedy eyes.
I stared too.
Those briefcases.
Stacks of cash. Enough to vanish. To start a new life. To save her.
My fingers twitched.
Black Mask stepped forward, arms wide again.
"Let the bidding—"
Twang.
The sound cut through the air like a whip.
The gun he held a second ago shattered into sparks, blown from his hand.
All heads turned.
There he was.
Above the staircase I came down from.
Leather green.
Bow drawn.
A shadow cast over his face.
The Hood.
The air held its breath.
And all I could think was:
He's here.