The bar was wedged between two massive support ducts, bolted directly into the inner wall of Connection City. Steam leaked from the pipes overhead, hissing softly as unseen gears turned far above. Oil-stained lamps cast a weak yellow light across the room, barely cutting through the smoke.
Two workers sat at the counter, boots still dirty from a long shift.
"You hear about what happened down below?" the first man asked, lifting his glass.
The other snorted. "Which 'down below'? Third or Fourth?"
"Fourth," he replied. "Scrap zone near the lower shafts. They say a Whiplash tore through a whole block last night."
The second man frowned and took a slow sip. "Whiplash? Inside the city?"
"That's what I heard."
They drank in silence for a moment.
Connection City rose upward like a colossal apartment tower, layer stacked upon layer, wrapped in thick outer walls and reinforced ducts. The upper levels bathed in artificial daylight and polished brass. The lower one went, the darker it became. By the Fourth Level, sunlight was little more than a rumor, and the air smelled of rust and waste.
"Someone killed it," the first man continued.
The second raised an eyebrow. "Company security?"
"No bodies. No patrol marks. Just… pieces."
"Pieces?"
"Clean cuts. Like the thing was taken apart."
The second man leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Then you know what people are gonna say."
The first hesitated, then spoke quietly.
"Ironhand."
A short laugh escaped the second man. "That old story again? Come on. My grandfather talked about Ironhand. Said people feared him back when the upper ducts were still under construction."
"Yeah," the first replied. "And my old man swore Ironhand saved a whole caravan by himself. Ten attackers. Maybe more."
"Or maybe he's not one man," the second said. "Maybe it's a name. Maybe it's a company trick. Or a rich bastard chasing excitement."
"Or maybe he's not real at all."
They finished their drinks and stood.
"Either way," the first said, pulling on his coat, "I don't wanna meet a Whiplash in a dark alley."
They left the bar and began heading downward, following a narrow maintenance path spiraling deeper into the lower levels. The lamps grew fewer, the ducts thicker. The city groaned around them, metal expanding and contracting with every distant pressure release.
Then something moved.
A sound like grinding metal mixed with wet muscle scraped against the wall ahead.
They froze.
From the shadows emerged the Whiplash.
Its body was a twisted fusion of exposed machinery and raw flesh. Steam vented from its back as pistons forced its limbs forward. One dim eye glowed behind cracked metal plating. It moved wrong—jerky and heavy, yet disturbingly fast.
It lunged.
One of the men screamed as the creature slammed him to the ground.
A single shot echoed through the alley.
The sound was deafening in the confined space.
The Whiplash's head exploded in a spray of sparks, oil, and blood. The creature collapsed lifelessly onto the metal floor.
Smoke drifted through the alley.
The surviving worker looked up, shaking.
A man stood before him, coat dark, face hidden beneath the shadow of a hat. His right arm was iron—thick plates, worn joints. From it extended a compact rifle, its barrel still warm.
With a sharp mechanical click, the weapon folded back into the arm.
The man turned to leave.
"W-wait," the worker said, forcing himself to his feet. "You… you saved him. What's your name?"
The stranger paused for half a second.
Just long enough.
"You already know." he said calmly.
Then he stepped into the shadows, disappearing into the city's endless layers—downward, where the sun never reached.
By morning, the story had already begun to spread.
Once again, Ironhand had been seen.
Or so they said.