Ceiling fans turned lazy circles above as a fiddle and a drum tussled in a corner, the players sitting on beer crates.
The crowd was the usual Underworks patchwork, with a few exceptions: mechanics with blacked knuckles, runners with light feet, 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 observed everything anyway.
Voices stacked without tripping. Dice clicked, rolling. Cards sighed. Someone laughed. Someone else swore. No one looked twice.
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, so 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 had somehow managed to make everyone at the surrounding tables leave. Same, too clean coat, too shiny shoes.
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 already vanished. In his right, pinched between two fingers as if it weighed nothing, was a compact black case with sharp corners.
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, weight already in his feet. His hands were empty in a way that meant he was ready to knock you out.
Obi rolled the stiffness out of his shoulders, breathed once, and stepped over with the sort of smile that made strangers nervous.
"Evening" he said cheerfully, stopping just close enough to be impolite. "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 rose, not fully - enough to put his shadow on the table. "Seat's taken."
"Looks like it" Obi said. "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.
Hikari had already drifted, slowly, silently approaching the table from behind.
She was a shadow. Unnoticed.
The bodyguard tried to hit Obi, as a warning. Raizen, in an instant motion, deflected his hand, and pushed him back.
"Walk away" the bodyguard mumbled. His voice had that flatness professionals buy with years - the sound that isn't loud and doesn't need to be. "Not your deal."
Obi grinned, wider. "We're all family down here. Deals are simply 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" Obi said. "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 an elbow on the edge of the table, but didn't lean. "Funny thing about last chances" he said. "They're never as last as people think."
The guard moved.
It wasn't a lunge. It was a clean, short step meant to get Obi to step back and set a line. But Obi didn't.
He slid inside the guard instead - shoulder brushing - just enough to make a scene. Raizen stepped at the same time, hand on an elbow - not grabbing, guiding. The guard was caught off balance and had to choose between balance and falling with pride.
He chose balance. It saved him from biting on wood.
"Easy" Obi said, palms up, grin wide. "No need to chip the furniture. The stew didn't do anything wrong."
Hikari finally made her move. She reached for the case.
A 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 fond. He didn't move. Didn't even flinch.
"Clever" he gently said.
"And costly."
A steel cuff 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 table.
The bodyguard's head 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 piece that whispers death.
The music in the corner stopped. A spoon froze mid-stir. Twenty conversations paused in the same breath.
Obi and Raizen were still finishing their step when everything narrowed to a circle of dark metal and the skin it touched.
The gun pressed, cold and absolute, against Hikari's head.