Lucien Blackmoore moved through the Undergleam with the kind of ease that only came from being scraped raw by it. He didn't stroll, didn't slink—he just fit, like a rot that had learned how to walk upright. This wasn't just a neighborhood or some sad excuse of forgotten city. It was a nerve, stretched tight and twitching under the city's boot, buzzing like it was one breath away from cracking wide open.
The air hung like it was choking on itself. Burned tech and cheap incense mixed with the iron stink of old blood, soaked into everything like the walls themselves were sweating it out. Neon signs flickered in bursts that didn't light anything so much as they stabbed it—jagged pinks and sick greens dancing across concrete pitted with old damage, some of it fresh. The alleys were a mess of broken teeth: tight spaces, corners that watched you, trash piled like barricades. Everyone moved fast, heads down, eyes sharper than they had any right to be. You either knew where you were going or you got eaten.
Lucien didn't just know the map—he was part of it. His coat flared out behind him, the deep red worn to the color of dried blood, leather stiff where the stitching had been patched by someone who didn't ask questions. It creaked when he tugged the collar up, a soft complaint that echoed off the close walls. His boots hit slick concrete like he meant it. Under the fabric, the Ledger pulsed low and steady in his chest, like a second heart, heavier and louder than it should've been. Every throb was a deal remembered, a promise carved into him, and a debt waiting to be collected.
The crowd shifted around him, parting just enough. He caught eyes, a few nods, a few looks that said, don't start trouble with that one. That was fine. He didn't need respect. He needed information.
He made for a stall that looked like it had been welded together by someone drunk on spite and rust. Crates leaned into each other like drunks holding up the last man standing. Lena crouched low behind them, lean and jagged, fingers darting across a pile of old cred-chips like she was counting grudges instead of money. Her skin was the same gray-brown as the buildings, like the Undergleam had grown her from the bricks and bad ideas. Eyes like wet obsidian, hard and deep.
"Lena," Lucien said, voice low, rough from smoke and old shouting. His grin was crooked, not charming so much as dangerous. "You bringing trouble tonight, or just sniffing out scraps?"
She didn't look up, just flicked one chip into another pile with a sharp click. "Blackmoore," she said, voice rasped down to the bone. "You here to stir shit or pick through what's left?"
Lucien shrugged one shoulder and let the grin stretch wider. "I'm king of scraps, sweetheart. This slum's a pit, but it's mine. Now talk. What's the syndicate chatter? Who's moving, who's sweating in their boots?"
Lena lifted her head slow, eyes scanning him like a scanner looking for weak points. "Iron Crows are pressing harder than usual. Real muscle moving in. Something big, not just muscle though. Something they're keeping zipped tight."
He started spinning his brass watch in his fingers. It clicked when it turned, a nervous habit or a weapon, depending on how you looked at it. "Heavy shipments mean someone's gambling big. Thanks, Lena. Drinks on me later. I owe you one."
Her smirk pulled sideways, more like a knife twist than a smile. "Don't forget your debts, Blackmoore. I like mine paid in blood or whiskey."
He opened his mouth to reply, but the universe beat him to it. A crate crashed over behind him, loud enough to crack the tension like a jawbone snapping. Lucien's head turned on instinct. Two Iron Crows stepped out from the shadows, all bulk and bruises and stitched leather jackets with that jagged crow emblem blackened in like a brand. These weren't errand boys. These were the ones you sent in when you wanted something broken and didn't care who saw it happen.
"Step aside, broker," the taller one growled. He flicked a blade from his sleeve and it caught the neon light just enough to look ceremonial, even though it was probably used for carving up anything but ceremony. "This slum can't hold both of us."
Lucien didn't flinch. His smirk stayed put, slow and casual, like this was just another line in a script he'd already rewritten.
"I'm here for gossip," he said, tilting his head slightly, "not bruises. But if you're looking for bruises, I don't lie down easy."
What followed wasn't clean.
The alley exploded into noise—wet punches, the hiss of a blade biting air, the clatter of steel on concrete. Lucien ducked a wild swing, boots sliding on the film of something unidentifiable. He slammed an elbow into the smaller Crow's ribs, heard something give. The bigger one came in fast, but Lucien pivoted, driving a fist into the man's gut with a grunt that carried all the weight of the past week behind it.
He didn't fight pretty. He fought like someone who didn't have backup.
A crate cracked open beside them in the scuffle, spilling a scatter of rusted tech, cracked drives, busted screen shards—and a single battered box, its seal smeared with a half-formed sigil that stopped Lucien cold.
Cassian's mark.
Sloppy. Half there. Just like always. A cipher that looked like it had been slapped on in a hurry with hands too twitchy to draw straight lines.
Lucien jabbed a finger at it, breathing hard. "Another cipher? This guy's got no class."
Lena was already at his side, crouched low, eyes gleaming like she'd found gold in the trash. "Cassian's proxies crawl all over this dump," she said, voice cool but with an edge. "Leaving marks like they want us to find them. He's pushing hard—sloppy as ever, like he's got nothing left to lose."
Lucien wiped a smear of blood off his lip with his thumb, eyes still on the crows regrouping. "Then let's make damn sure they know I'm still king. Time to remind these birds who owns the sky."
The next round hit harder. Lucien fought like someone who'd made too many promises and couldn't afford to break one more. Elbows, knees, the occasional cracked knuckle. It wasn't elegant. But by the time the second Crow hit the concrete, wheezing and spitting blood, Lucien was still standing.
Breathing heavy, he glanced down. His coat was torn at the sleeve, blood mixing with the city's muck. The Ledger beat steady under his ribs. Telling him this wasn't over. It never was.
He looked over at Lena, who was leaning against a crate, arms folded, watching like she'd just seen a preview of the apocalypse.
"See that?" he said, voice rough with effort but still laced with amusement. "This slum's a pit, but I'm the king. Feed me more intel and I owe you a drink. Maybe two."
Lena let out a short laugh, dry as bone. "Keep the whiskey coming, Blackmoore, and I'll keep the gossip dripping. But next time, you bring backup."
Lucien grinned, not because it was funny, but because he'd survived the round.
A merchant from two stalls over—an older guy with grease-blackened hands and eyes like chipped stone—called out through the haze. "Blackmoore! You stir up this mess, or just come to dance in it?"
Lucien raised a hand, waving lazily. "I don't dance, friend. I orchestrate."
The man grunted. "Just don't bring the crows my way. They bleed messy."
Lucien's eyes drifted back to the box with Cassian's sigil. Half-formed, careless, loud in its own quiet way. The game wasn't over. Cassian was still playing—only now, the pieces were slipping.
The neon buzzed back into the silence, humming like nerves under skin. Lucien pulled his coat tighter, breath coming slower now. The Undergleam wrapped around him again, like a lover you can't quite quit even after she's tried to kill you twice. He didn't mind. The city didn't scare him. Not tonight.
Tonight, he'd reminded it who it belonged to.