Ceiling fans turned lazily in circles above as a fiddle and a drum tussled in a corner, the players sitting on beer crates.
The crowd was the usual Underworks stuff, nothing too special: Mechanics with blacked knuckles, two miners still black with coal the collar, a trio of merchants hunched over a map, mercs in coats with a lot of pockets, a pair of quiet types who never turned their heads but looked dangerous anyway.
Voices stacked in a friendly murmur. Somewhere at a bigger table, some dice clicked, laughter following. Someone else swore. No one even cared.
Only a few faces tipped, just enough.
"…that's him!"
"…the Loud one… Gauntlet kid…"
The whispers slid back into the noise quickly, and the Maw went on pretending it didn't care who did business at which table, as long as the drinks were paid for, and the trouble had the good manners to happen outside.
Marcus Valerius sat at the corner table that somehow managed to make everyone at the surrounding tables leave.
He had a clear drink in front of him and a small, expensive-looking plate he wasn't eating from. In his left hand, his pocket watch reflected light off its shiny stones inside.
And in his right, pinched between two fingers as if it weighed nothing, was the compact black case that was supposed to contain Luminite.
Next to him stood a man whose job was very obvious: square coat, square jaw, a scar pulled one corner of his mouth downward.
The bodyguard stood near the edge of his chair, hands already clenched.
Obi rolled the stiffness out of his shoulders, breathed once, and stepped over with his smile, the kind that made strangers nervous.
"Evening" he said cheerfully, stopping just close enough to look Marcus in his eyes. "That's a very brave coat for this neighborhood."
Marcus looked up. His eyes were careful. "Do I know you?"
"Not yet" Obi smiled. "But you will if we keep talking."
The bodyguard stepped closer - enough to intimidate anyone near the table. "This table's taken."
"Looks like it" Obi sighed. "Terrible shame. I was just admiring your… Looks. Aren't you some kind of official?"
Marcus completely ignored him. Instead, he carefully placed the case on the table.
On the other side of the room, Hikari had already drifted between the tables and people, silently approaching the table from behind. She was like a ghost, nobody saw her... Yet.
The bodyguard tried to nudge Obi, as a warning. Raizen, in a quick motion, deflected his hand, and pushed him back.
"Walk away" the bodyguard mumbled."Not your deal."
Obi grinned, wider. "We're all family down here. Deals are simply a... What can I call it... A suggestion!"
He tipped his head at Marcus. "What brings a clean sleeve this deep? Trying on morals to see if they itch?"
Marcus's mouth twitched. "I'm simply doing work" he answered. "And you're too loud."
"I agree, and I'm proud of that." Obi said excitedly. "Ask around!"
Some glances softly turned
"Don't need to" the guard answered. His eyes flicked once to Raizen, then came back to Obi. "Last chance."
Obi leaned a hand on the edge of the table, but didn't lean. "Funny thing about last chances" he whispered slowly...
"They're never as last as people think."
The guard moved.
It wasn't something meant to knock him out. It was just a short step meant to get Obi to step back and set a line. But Obi didn't.
He slid inside the space instead - shoulders brushing - just enough to make a scene. Raizen stepped in at the same time, and nudged him with reasonable force. The bodyguard was caught off balance and almost fell.
"Easy" Obi said, palms up, grin wide. "No need to bite the furniture! The stew didn't do anything wrong."
Hikari, now very close, finally made her move. She reached for the case.
A dark whisper suddenly coiled in her mind. Cold, sharp... Inhuman.
Wait!
But she ignored it.
Her fingers grabbed the handle - and pulled.
Marcus's smile brightened, almost fondly. He didn't move. Didn't even flinch.
"Clever" he gently said.
"...And costly."
A steel cuff mechanism fired from the handle with a cruel sound, caught her wrist, and locked. At the same instant a bolt snapped down through the base and into the table, nailing the case to the furniture.
The bodyguard's head instantly turned, as if pulled by a string.
As if he practiced the same move for hundreds of times, he stuck his hand inside his coat.
In the blink of an eye, he pulled out a pistol.
Not a sloppy street piece. Neoshima stuff: matte gunmetal, ceramic slide, a weapon that whispers death.
The music in the corner stopped. A spoon froze mid-stir. Twenty conversations paused in the same breath.
The gun pressed, cold and absolute, against Hikari's head.