Outside the sprawling headquarters of Stray Dogs, four refrigerated trucks lined the street. Putato could see the frosty mist escaping from the gaps in the cargo doors.
"The Backstreets Butcher?"
"Exactly. Far too many people have been dying lately. Stray Dogs needs to recoup some losses, so we're heading to District 23 to offload these fresh corpses."
Putato watched as Zulu directed his subordinates to transfer the bodies into the refrigerated units. It made sense now why the group hadn't left the remains for the Sweepers last night; they were harvesting them. He figured any that didn't meet the "standard" were simply tossed into trash cans.
In this world, the Backstreets chefs and Sweepers were practically competitors.
"Won't we get double-crossed there?"
His hazy memory suggested that the Butchers in District 23 did indeed cooperate with Syndicates from other districts for trade. There was even a Chef's Purchasing Guide that rated and ranked products, much like a Michelin guide. Some of the more ambitious chefs would even stalk the streets themselves to hunt for the perfect ingredients.
"Hard to say. It's my first time handling this end of the business too. Before this, I just collected protection fees from Rats."
"This run is just an experiment by the Syndicate, but for you, it's a rare opportunity. Gyeong-mi doesn't like repeating the same lessons twice."
Zulu didn't care about appearing inexperienced and spoke of District 23 with visible disgust. The iron scent of blood made Putato nauseous. Just the thought of bartering with a pack of cannibals made his stomach churn.
"Let's move. The cargo is loaded."
Putato climbed into the passenger seat as Zulu floored the gas, leading the convoy away. Leaning against the window, Putato watched the vibrant, chaotic neon lights of The City blur past.
At the gates of a mental asylum, a pregnant woman swung her umbilical cord like a flail, brutally lashing out at passersby. In a nearby bar, a drunkard was balanced precariously on a flashing neon sign. Beneath a burning building, a crowd gathered while security guards collected "entry fees" at knifepoint.
"The City actually has mental asylums?"
"Hmph. Those old men from Lobotomy Corporation are so hopped up on coffee they have to find something to do with their sudden bursts of charity."
"If they actually wanted to build an asylum, they'd have to put a wall around the entire City."
Suddenly, Putato spotted the Blood-Sucking Calico Cat again. It was leaping nimbly across the rooftops, closing in on the convoy with terrifying speed. His recently calmed nerves tightened instantly. He stared at the creature, wondering how to survive this monster.
"Who's our contact in District 23? Are they reliable?"
"Yeah, their flyers are everywhere. The damn things even reached us all the way out here."
As they passed a speed limit sign, Putato felt the truck begin to slow down.
"Why are we slowing? You're not planning to pick up more 'goods' here, are you? Or is this your first time behind the wheel too?"
Putato scanned the orderly square ahead. Unlike the chaos they had left behind, the opposite side of the road was lined with shops and mobile stalls.
"This entire block pays dues to two different factions. Keep it low-key. Don't bring trouble to the Syndicate."
Low-key? Putato looked at the scattered car wrecks littering the main street. And there was still a Bloodfiend breathing down their necks!
"Boss Zulu, have you ever seen a cat that stalks a car?"
"A cat? I gut a few every month. They're stupider than Rats."
"I'm talking about the massive cat right behind us."
Putato leaned back and jerked a thumb toward the rearview mirror. Zulu glanced indifferently at first, then sat bolt upright. His face turned pale. In the mirror, a gigantic crimson nightmare was charging down the street, crushing steel frames with every stride.
"Dammit! Why is that monster back?! Did you lead it here?"
"I'm innocent, Boss! If I'd led it here, would I still be breathing?"
"Crap! We're dead meat!"
The chase hadn't lasted thirty seconds before two vehicles, bearing the insignias of two rival factions, swerved from a side street. Putato poked his head out into the whistling wind. The cars were packed with Fixers from two different Associations. Their dark blue uniforms made his skin crawl.
Association Fixers were a different breed from the amateurs at Yun's Office. Grade 7 was the bare minimum here, and a team leader could easily be Grade 5. Worse, this was their turf. If they were pinned down, Putato wouldn't even get a chance to plead his case before being executed.
"Putato, don't just sit there! Think of something!"
"We're dead either way! Even invoking the Thumb's name won't save us now!"
"Zulu, you're the one in charge and you're asking me?!"
Wait, he thought, this cat craves fresh blood. Putato considered dumping a corpse to distract it, but these bodies were a day old—long past their prime. It wouldn't work.
[All vehicles, stop for inspection!]
[Any resistance will be met with immediate execution!]
At the intersection ahead, two cars swerved horizontally, barricading the street. Fixers scrambled out, rolling out a carpet of spiked strips.
"Get the truck behind us closer!" Putato screamed at Zulu. "I'm going to jump!"
"Putato, what the hell are you doing?"
"We're about to crash and you're still playing twenty questions?!"
Zulu barked an order over the comms. The truck behind them lurched forward until it was only three meters away. Putato pried open his window and leaped with everything he had, narrowly catching the edge of the trailing truck's window frame.
Bang!
His head slammed against the frame. Ignoring the dizzying pain, Putato forced his way inside and kicked the door open.
"Are you insane? Why are you cramming in here now?!" The two men in the cab snapped, one of them white-knuckled as he fought the steering wheel.
"Of course, I'm here to open your two blood bags!"
Hematic Pump, activate!
Putato drove a strike into the throat of the complaining subordinate. Before the driver could even let out a curse, he delivered a second lethal blow. He felt no moral weight in disposing of these Syndicate scum.
"Go to hell!"
He kicked the two fresh corpses out of the cab. As expected, the pursuing Bloodfiend halted immediately to feast. Behind it, the Association vehicles swerved and braked in a chaotic pile-up.
Grabbing the steering wheel, Putato wrenched the heavy vehicle into a hard U-turn.
Boom!
The refrigerated truck slammed into a lead Association car. Gritting his teeth, Putato relied on his superhuman reflexes to maintain control as the metal groaned and sparked.
"Damn, damn, damn!"
It wasn't until they had cleared the square and escaped the territory of both factions that Putato finally exhaled. After a long, tense detour, Zulu led the convoy toward District 23.
"Maybe I should pick up a part-time taxi gig to brush up on my driving talent."
By the time they pulled into a multi-story parking garage half a day later, Putato was on the verge of vomiting from the erratic ride. Before he could even recover his footing, he was met with Zulu's murderous glare.
"What the hell was that?!"
"That," Putato wheezed, "was me upholding the interests of Stray Dogs by ensuring the executives escaped in one piece."
"You slaughtered my men to distract that monster. Why shouldn't I kill you right now?"
The remaining four subordinates surrounded him, their hands on their weapons. Putato remained unfazed. These Syndicate thugs were all the same: bullies who cowered before the strong. The only thing separating them from Rats was a slightly bigger paycheck.
"Because it was the leader's command. For the greater good, sacrifices were necessary."
"I was sent by Boss Gyeong-mi as a liaison, and you are a Stray Dogs executive. We are brothers, sure, but our lives carry more weight for the Syndicate. You should have the professional awareness to recognize that."
Rarely one to be provoked, Zulu swung a heavy punch at Putato's head. Putato simply leaned back, letting the fist whistle past.
"Boss Zulu, I understand your grief, but the leader's orders are absolute. Those were necessary losses. Besides, you were the one who told the trucks to close the gap. I couldn't have jumped if they hadn't moved."
"Or are you suggesting you're running a Syndicate within a Syndicate, placing your personal feelings above the Boss's agenda?"
When it came to playing the role of a traitor, Putato's conscience pricked him, but when he was gaslighting a thief, he felt nothing but satisfaction.
"Fine. Whatever."
"Boss Zulu, you play the grieving hero, and I'll take the bad reputation. But we have business to attend to. Let's go find the Backstreets Butcher." Putato gave a casual shrug.
"Hmph. There won't be a next time!"
So you're really going to let me take the fall, huh?
Watching Zulu's fuming retreat, Putato knew the man was also a professional at putting on an act. If Zulu truly gave a damn about those "brothers," he'd be reaching for his gun, not walking away.
Clang, clang, clang.
The sharp ring of cutlery echoed from the depths of the parking garage.
Putato scanned the dark corners as figures began to emerge. The garage was pitch black, a deliberate choice, he suspected, intended to intimidate any suppliers. In the Backstreets, the line between business and slaughter was razor-thin.
"Deep in the alley, footsteps are rare. The chef smiles, and the blades flare."
"The aroma intoxicates, the plate is piled high. Diners drool as the feast draws nigh."
The speaker was a woman with waist-length black hair. A yellow leather apron and matching gloves obscured her figure. In the glow of the truck's headlights, Putato caught the dark, wet stains on her leather. These people looked like a pack of starving wolves, their fangs bared and ready to tear.
Putato looked at Zulu. Zulu stared back.
"Why are you standing there? We lost two men for this. If this cargo doesn't sell, don't bother coming back."
The Syndicate's test wasn't over. Putato still had to prove his worth. He turned toward the female Butcher, who was still rhythmically clanking her knives.
"You've got the wrong idea. We're here to sell 'beef.' If you want an appreciation for poetry, try the Ring Finger."
"No mistake. This is just the ditty we hum while we cook. Welcome to District 23."
"Cut the crap," Zulu barked. "Just give us the money."
"Easy now. We need to inspect the 'ingredients' first."
Putato gestured to the truck. But as the Butchers hauled open the refrigerated doors and examined the remains, the air quickly filled with sounds of collective dissatisfaction.
"Dammit! It's yesterday's meat again."
"How many times do I have to say it? I want same-day kills! You're wasting perfectly good product!"
"Are you trying to insult my guests with this frozen garbage? I told you: never freeze the meat!"
"Ugh, most of this is just Rat flesh. This kind of dry, stringy rib meat is bottom-shelf quality at best."
"The marbling isn't bad on this one, but look at all these tattoos. It's revolting. We can't even salvage the skin for dermal implants."
"Can the bastards who invented prosthetic modifications and tattoo augmentations just drop dead already?"
The rhythmic clashing of knives grew sharp and aggressive, the harmony lost to their irritation.
The female Butcher vaulted down from the truck and began circling Putato, eyeing him like a cut of steak.
"Your inventory is trash. At best, it's only fit to be ground into mystery mince."
"We've hauled this all the way here. You're not suggesting I leave empty-handed, are you?" Putato felt a cold dread settle in his chest.
"Of course not. I'll clear your path and throw in some gas money. But the goods? They're mine."
Unbelievable!
This woman is even more of a predator than I am.
Putato instinctively took a step back.
"Boss Zulu, what's the play here?"
"This is your assignment," Zulu replied coldly. "I suggest you succeed."
"If you fail to deliver on the leader's directive, then I'll be forced to 'process' you right here."
Zulu's tone was casual, but the four subordinates behind him were already cracking their knuckles.
So much for "brothers"!
That lot knew exactly what the Butchers demanded regarding quality, yet they'd thrown him into the negotiations anyway. They were forcing him to choose: lose the money or lose his life.
"Relax. I'll negotiate with her again." Desperate to keep his head, Putato spoke up to keep Zulu at bay.
"There's nothing left to discuss. If the profit margin doesn't suit you, feel free to haul these trucks back out," Yixin said, slowly twirling a black strand of hair around an iron fork, looking like a bashful maiden—if you ignored the bloodstains.
But Putato wasn't fooled. Anyone representing a pack of Butchers had to be a monster. Besides, if they turned back now, Gyeong-mi would have their heads.
"Look, we're practically neighbors; I grew up in District 23. Can't you make an exception for a local? I promise the next shipment will be top-tier."
"Fine."
Yixin lowered her fork and began rubbing against Putato, leaning so close he could feel her breath on his skin. Her face was unexpectedly soft, a jarring contrast to her profession.
"If you stay here too, I'll take the lot at cost."
She whispered it directly into his ear. Thank god—if Zulu had heard that, he'd have sold Putato out in a heartbeat.
Putato stared into her eyes—eyes that looked ready to devour him whole—and forced a polite smile while fighting the urge to gag.
"Don't tease me. Stray Dogs is an affiliate of the Thumb, and we're currently at war with Void Fist."
"Soon enough, there will be plenty of 'premium' goods delivered to your doorstep. You just have to survive long enough to see them."
One day, I'm going to cave these cannibals' skulls in.
"Alright then."
The speed of her agreement caught Putato off guard. He tentatively pressed his luck: "So, about that 'friendly' price for this shipment?"
"I told you, it's no problem—as long as you remain as collateral."
Yixin reached out, her fingers trailing across his chest as she leaned in, her face flushed with a disturbing fervor. Putato recoiled as if burned, goosebumps erupting across his skin.
Am I really that appetizing to her?
Seeing his rejection, Yixin's expression turned frost-cold, though the hunger in her eyes didn't dim for a second.
"Can we unload the cargo?" she asked indifferently.
In a desperate stroke of genius, Putato suddenly roared to get everyone's attention: "Is that all you Butchers can do? Make mince?!"
The insult hit home. The numerous "chefs" in the garage bristled with rage, and even Yixin's gaze turned lethal.
"Truth be told, I'm not really with Stray Dogs. I'm just a freelance intermediary trying to fund my 'Life's Menu'."
"I despise the so-called 'delicacies' of the Backstreets; I couldn't care less about your pittance. It's just that my ingredients are prohibitively expensive, forcing me to deal with these mundane trades!"
"Forgive my bluntness, but your culinary techniques are ancient—relics of a boring past."
"I've experimented with stuffing a family of four into the stomach of an elephant and letting them ferment for three months. Do you know the result? A profile like aged cheese—dense, complex, and utterly unique."
"Do you know how to process human milk into curd? Did you know that introducing specific maggots can strip the fat, making the texture light and airy?"
"Do you even understand the chemistry of using human saliva to clarify a fresh broth?!"
"You're all just a bunch of hacks who can only grind meat!"
Drawing on his memories of Kiviak, Casu Marzu, and Bird's Nest, Putato presented them as his own avant-garde creations. It worked. The "chefs" were stunned into silence.
"So you're a purist? One who focuses on natural, organic processing?"
"Creative... almost like molecular gastronomy. I'm fascinated by that first dish."
"Pah! Disregarding the original flavor like that is just flashy nonsense!"
"Shut up! This is what true mastery looks like—exploring the limits of the menu! Come to my restaurant, kid, we have much to discuss!"
Zulu and his men watched from the truck, speechless. The kid's tastes were... disturbing, even by their standards. Zulu found himself wondering if Putato's "restaurant" actually existed.
Hearing these bizarre methods, Yixin's eyes blazed. She licked her thin lips in anticipation.
"Fine. I want to taste your craft."
"If I'm satisfied, I'll take this shipment at cost."
"I have a strict professional code: I only cook for myself."
"I don't mind eating your leftovers," she countered immediately.
He was cornered. There was only one way forward.
"Very well. But I have a condition. You represent the Backstreets Butchers, correct?"
"We are united in the pursuit of the ultimate cuisine, yes."
"Then I want in. Sharing a menu with fellow professionals is the only way I can justify breaking my code. Otherwise, the deal is off."
Yixin's curiosity was piqued. Saliva literally dripped from the fork in her mouth.
"Done. Consider yourself a comrade in our search for the perfect flavor."