The black market in Undergleam didn't just stink of sweat and bad deals. It breathed like something alive—low and wet—wheezing through rust-choked pipes like an animal too old to fight but too mean to die. The whole place twitched, an uneasy network of cables and shadows stitched deep into the ribs of the city itself. Light barely scraped through the grated ceiling overhead. The neon that did flicker looked tired, like it regretted showing up, its colors flickering weakly through the thick, rancid haze. Everything was coated in oppressive dampness, thick and clinging like a curse hanging heavy in the air.
Lucien Blackmoore moved through the chaos like he owned a map nobody else could read. Every turn, every stall, every pulse of desperation had already been accounted for and calculated. He wasn't smiling—no, the city didn't deserve that—but the twitch of his mouth betrayed a warning: he might, if someone got stupid enough to cross him. His coat clung damp and heavy to his frame, soaked through like the weight of regret. Beneath it, the Ledger pulsed slow and steady, warm against his ribs like a second heartbeat—alive, aware, watching.
The Ledger stirred beneath his coat, flickering softly like a living thing. A low hum rose in his skull as the system whispered status updates in its cryptic voice: Current Target: Cassian's Proxy. Status: Active. Task: Track movements. Informant reports due: 2. Collections pending: 1.
Somewhere close, two stallrunners tore into each other over a rigged charm. One hit landed wet and final; curses spat like sparks off a live wire. Lucien didn't flinch. That was just Undergleam exhaling—its rancid breath of violence, desperation, and decay.
He ducked beneath cables sagging under the weight of age and moisture, passing a vendor hawking cursed heirlooms and cracked memory-keys. The man had a synth-arm, fingers twitching over his goods, and a third eye glowing dull red with wear and wariness.
"Fresh pulls! Still screaming when I tagged 'em!" the vendor wheezed, voice rough as gravel, spitting dust.
Lucien shot him a flat look. "You say that like it's a feature."
The vendor coughed out a laugh, dry and brittle, like the sound of dust scraping over stone. "Pain means provenance, Ledger man."
Lucien said nothing. His boots whispered against slick stones stained with runoff and old blood. Pipes groaned overhead like something waking in a long nightmare. Everything here felt heavy, saturated, as if a storm had passed and left only its bones behind.
"Syl," he murmured.
She shimmered into being beside him—static wrapped in violet light—no glamour, just sharp precision. A blade of presence carved from the haze.
"You haunt better than most," Lucien said, a half-smile tugging at his lip.
"That's because I left nothing behind," she answered, voice clean and clipped.
He handed her a grimy holo-pad. "Get me the feeds. I want every alley Cassian's spooks have crawled through. We need to track his proxy threads before they braid into something worse."
Syl smirked, voice sardonic. "Only if you promise not to sweet-talk the signal again. Makes the code twitch."
She vanished, peeling through a graffiti-tagged wall like it owed her money.
A boy dashed into him near a scrap stall, quick hands but not quick enough. Lucien snagged the kid's wrist mid-theft, holding it firm with the bored precision of a man too tired to be angry.
"Pick a slower mark next time."
The kid blinked, wide-eyed and silent.
Lucien released him with a nudge almost kind. "Run before someone nastier grabs hold."
The boy vanished. Lucien watched the empty space longer than he intended.
"He's got taste," said the stall owner, a woman with silver nails and soot-smudged skin. "Most reach for candy or charms. He went for legacy."
Lucien tapped his coat. The Ledger pulsed beneath like a warning, Status update: Target proxy weaving false trails. Signal strength fluctuating. Priority level rising.
"I'm all weight and warning signs."
"And yet somehow still breathing," she said, voice like smoke.
He moved on.
At a crooked corner lit by a half-dead bulb, he flicked the holo-pad back on. Static crawled across the screen before settling into drone footage: an alley, two figures, a flash of gunfire. One dropped. Behind them, burned into the bricks, a jagged sigil—crude and loud—Cassian's.
Lucien exhaled slow. "Kid tags like a drunk with a vendetta."
A wrapped vendor nearby turned, voice hushed. "You know that mark?"
"I know the stink of it."
"Three of mine tried following it. Only one came back. Didn't come back right."
Lucien dropped his brass watch onto the holo-pad with a cold click. The echo cut through the murmur of the market.
"Someone's banging pots hoping I'll dance. Let 'em. I hear every off-beat."
The feed buzzed again. Syl's voice slipped through, cool and sardonic. "Maybe the beat's bait. Maybe they're playing you."
Lucien smiled sharp. "Then I hope they enjoy the show."
He leaned into the frame, rewinding the footage, tracking every glitch and shiver of shadow. Cassian wasn't just leaving marks. He was broadcasting.
"He wants the Ledger to notice," Lucien muttered.
The Ledger pulsed, words crawling through its glyphwork, etched in ember-light: He hunts me.
A tinkerer waved him down. "Soulglass binders. Etched clean. Trace shame and secrets."
"I deal in debt, not guilt."
"Same currency. Different ledger."
Lucien turned without a word. A prophet hunched behind stacked crates murmured to a jar of teeth.
"You walk with a shadow stitched wrong," she whispered. "It grins like you, but it answers to something else."
Lucien didn't slow. "Tell it to wait in line."
Syl reappeared at his side. "Feeds are up. He's bleeding noise all through the south tier. You were right. Not hiding. Showing off."
Lucien nodded once. "Then we cut the act."
He paused at a food stall, tossing a coin without looking. Bit into something tough and salty.
"Seen anything strange?"
The vendor didn't blink. "Stranger than you? Someone left a teeth-pile humming in the drain. Still won't shut up."
Lucien spat the bite out, wiped his mouth. "Sounds like him."
The Ledger pulsed hotter now. New glyphs shimmered: You chose this.
Lucien whispered back, voice low but steady, just loud enough for the ether to hear. "That guard didn't."
He closed his coat, shielding the pulse from sight. Cassian was setting fires. He needed a net. A sting. A counter-move made from shadows and silence.
"Ledger's heavier now," he muttered.
It answered in kind: You're bound to me.
Lucien didn't argue.
He just kept walking, already thinking three moves ahead.
The city listened.
And the war hadn't even started yet.