The lower levels of Antioch Hive City were perpetually shrouded in a layer of yellow-brown industrial haze.
There was no distinction between day and night here, only the listless roar of the circulation fans.
The air was thick with the stench of old machine oil, moldy fungal food, and the sour smell of some indescribable fermented waste.
Cyril followed behind Scarface, his leather shoes splashing through pools of multicolored oil slick as he stepped over the waterlogged pavement.
His originally exquisite waiter's uniform was now stained with soot and blood, but this only made him look more like a demon crawling back from Hell.
This incongruous blend of elegance and disarray created an unsettling presence.
Scarface walked ahead, his back rigid, like a stray dog with a gun barrel pressed against the back of its head.
He glanced back at Cyril occasionally.
"Watch the road, not me."
Cyril's voice drifted over lightly, sending a shiver down Scarface's spine.
"Y-yes, Cyril... oh no, B-Boss."
Scarface stammered his reply, nearly tripping over an exposed cable.
He couldn't understand how that spineless wimp who used to meekly sew up corpses had suddenly become a different person.
The move he pulled in the morgue just now was impossibly fast, not human speed at all.
Had this guy really hooked up with some big shot in the Upper Nest? Or was he possessed by something unclean?
Cyril chuckled, as if he had eyes in the back of his head.
"Scarface, are you currently thinking about how you're going to clear your name when you meet Morozha later?"
Scarface stopped abruptly, his face instantly turning pale.
"N-no! I am completely loyal to the boss!"
"Loyalty?"
Cyril held the cigarette between two fingers and gently flicked the ash, his movement as elegant as playing the piano.
"Then those few crates of goods you secretly pocketed from the 'corpse starch' recycling station last month. Was that also to show your loyalty to the boss?"
Scarface's pupils contracted violently, staring at Cyril as if he had seen a ghost.
"H-how do you know?!"
That was the most secret deal he had ever made. Even the woman he slept with didn't know. How could this kid possibly know?
Of course, Cyril didn't know.
But he knew the survival rule of the Lower Hive gangs. No small leader had clean hands.
Furthermore, back in the morgue, he had smelled that unique odor on Scarface's cuff, an odor only high-concentration corpse preservative possessed.
That was contraband supplied specifically by the recycling station, and only private resale would leave such a strong scent.
This was the Magician's "Cold Reading," combined with a bit of logical deduction, which, in the eyes of these unsophisticated thugs, became omniscient "mind reading."
"I know far more than you can imagine."
Cyril walked up beside Scarface and reached out to brush the dust off his shoulder, treating him like a disobedient pet dog.
"For example, is that little stash of private money you've hidden away enough to buy your life?"
Scarface's legs completely gave out.
If this matter reached Morozha, he would be flayed alive and hung in a ventilation shaft to dry out like cured meat.
"Boss! Sire! Grandpa Cyril!"
Scarface nearly dropped to his knees, his rough, fleshy face contorted in pleading.
"Please, have mercy!"
Cyril watched the scene with satisfaction.
Fear was the best leash.
"Lead the way. As long as you behave, I have plenty of meat to feed you."
Cyril withdrew his hand and slipped it back into his pocket, his fingertips lightly rubbing the warm rose knot.
Although he hadn't used the system for those few lines of bluffing, the effect was surprisingly good.
The two walked through a narrow heat dissipation pipe.
The temperature here was more than ten degrees higher than outside, and the walls were covered in dripping, rust-red condensation.
The sides of the pipe were piled high with discarded mechanical parts, resembling a graveyard of steel corpses.
Suddenly, the sharp click of a rifle bolt being pulled back echoed from the dim corner ahead.
"Yo, isn't this Scarface of the Black Hand Gang?"
A mocking voice echoed through the pipe, carrying a strong metallic reverberation.
Scarface froze, instinctively trying to shrink back.
"The Iron Crow Gang..."
He squeezed the words through his teeth, his hand reaching for the dagger at his waist, but he was trembling violently.
A dozen dark figures emerged from the shadows.
Leading them was a man as thin as a skeleton, holding a modified automatic rifle with dirty tourniquets wrapped around the muzzle.
That was the Iron Crow Gang's second-in-command, "One-Eye" Jack.
Although he had both eyes, it was said his heart was smaller than a small dick.
"Did that old bastard Morozha finally decide to let you out?"
Jack snickered maliciously, the gun barrel swinging back and forth between Scarface and Cyril.
"Why did you bring a pretty boy? Is this a 'special service' the Black Hand Gang is offering now?"
The surrounding Iron Crow Gang members immediately burst into raucous laughter, the sound grating through the narrow pipe.
Scarface's face turned green, but he knew that if he backed down now, he would die even faster.
He steeled himself, took a step forward, and yelled with false bravado:
"Jack! Is this your road to block? Get lost! I have urgent business with Boss Morozha!"
"Urgent business?"
Jack tilted his head, a trace of cruel mockery appearing on his skeletal face.
"Are you urgently trying to reincarnate?"
As his voice fell, the surrounding gang members all raised their weapons.
Although they were just homemade guns and crude explosives, in this narrow terrain, a single volley would turn them into sieves.
Scarface glanced back at Cyril in despair.
It's over.
This is really the end.
Even if this pretty boy was skilled, could he be faster than a bullet?
However, to his surprise, Cyril showed no sign of panic whatsoever.
He remained standing there, even taking the time to straighten the slightly crooked knot of his collar.
His nonchalant attitude was like watching a group of monkeys perform tricks.
"Scarface, this is the shortcut you mentioned?"
Cyril's voice was excessively calm, even carrying a hint of lazy complaint.
"Next time you pick a route, could you please avoid these nauseating pieces of trash?"
The entire scene fell silent.
Even Jack was stunned.
He had been operating in the Lower Hive for so many years and had never seen anyone so arrogant while staring down the barrel of a gun.
"Kid, what did you just say?"
Jack narrowed his eyes, his finger tightening on the trigger.
"Repeat that with your filthy mouth. I dare you."
Cyril slowly raised his head.
Under the dim light, his eyes were as deep as a dry well.
"I said..."
He stretched out one hand, palm up, and slowly spread his five fingers.
"You are a nauseating piece of trash".