After leaving the core area of the Black Hand Gang headquarters, the scent of blood in the air thinned slightly, replaced by a more pungent odor of decay and mildew.
Scarface led Cyril into an abandoned maintenance station connected to Ventilation Duct Number 44.
This place was probably once a charging room for Servitors. Broken cables hung from the walls like disemboweled intestines.
"Boss, this place is absolutely secure."
Scarface diligently wiped down the three-legged metal table with his sleeve, his face alight with excitement.
"Since we're going to take down the Iron Crow Gang, I have a way in!"
Cyril did not sit. He just leaned against the rust-covered wall, a cigarette held between two fingers, watching this thug with a face full of hardened flesh through the swirling smoke.
"Oh? Tell me."
"I know a night watchman from the Iron Crow Gang side, called Mangy Dog."
Scarface thumped his chest, his posture suggesting that with a single command from him, the entire Hive City of Antioch could be crushed under his heel.
"That guy's a gambler, up to his neck in debt. Just slip him a few dozen throne coins, and I can lead a team in through the sewage outlet tonight. We'll snatch that Raven and bring him to you without anyone knowing!"
Cyril's movements halted.
He slowly exhaled a smoke ring. His eyes held no praise, only the pity one might show a dead man.
"Sneak in?"
Cyril let out a light chuckle. The laugh echoed in the cramped maintenance station, sending a chill down Scarface's spine.
He walked to the table, pulled out the grease-stained electronic map from his coat, and slapped it onto the table with a thwack.
His fingertip tapped lightly on the red dot marking the Iron Crow Gang's abandoned power station.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Each tap felt like a blow to Scarface's heart.
"You think a man like Raven has survived this long in a place like the Lower Hive, where people are devoured without a trace, by relying on fools who open doors for money?"
Scarface choked on his words. The flesh on his face twitched a couple of times, a mix of defiance and fear.
"But... but Boss, can't you see the future?"
Scarface cautiously watched Cyril's expression, lowering his voice a notch.
"Can't you just use that divine ability to see what they're hiding, or see if we'd win if we charged in? Wouldn't that work?"
Cyril turned, his back to the dim lumen lamp.
The backlight made him look like a pitch-black silhouette, with only the glowing red ember of his cigarette flickering in the darkness.
"Divination? Divination can indeed see the outcome. But in the future I see, there are a thousand paths leading to that outcome."
He turned back, his deep eyes boring into Scarface as if trying to pierce through that not-so-developed brain.
"Take one wrong step, and our heads will end up like Sixth's in that box back there, pickled in formaldehyde as decorations."
Scarface shuddered.
The image of Silas Six's ghastly pale head in Morozha's Execution Room, along with the pungent smell of preservatives, flooded his mind.
His Adam's apple bobbed with difficulty. A layer of fine, cold sweat broke out on his forehead.
"The fact that the Iron Crow Gang can get the red-robed Adeptus Mechanicus to personally back them, even at the risk of offending Morozha, means the chips they hold are definitely not something as simple as a few crates of illegal hallucinogens."
Cyril tossed his cigarette butt on the floor and crushed it viciously under the polished toe of his leather shoe.
"Charging in recklessly only leads to two outcomes."
He held up two fingers, waggling them in front of Scarface.
"First, get turned into an unrecognizable pile of minced meat by a Heavy Bolter hidden in the shadows."
"Second, get captured by those mad Grease Monkeys, ripped apart while still alive, fitted with a few rusty gears, and turned into a Servitor test subject."
Cyril leaned forward slightly, locking eyes with Scarface.
"Which one would you choose?"
Scarface shook his head like a rattle drum, his face deathly pale.
"No... no, I don't want either! I don't want any of them!"
"If you don't want to die, then use your brain."
Cyril rummaged in the dilapidated toolbox, pulling out a crumpled piece of wrapping paper and a half-used charcoal pencil left behind by who knows who.
He began sketching rapidly on the paper.
A few simple lines instantly formed a rough sketch of the area surrounding the Iron Crow Gang's territory.
"There are three levels to intelligence gathering, not just charging in like a rabid dog trying to bite."
Cyril spoke in a low voice, the kind you might miss if you weren't listening carefully, as he drew.
"The first level: look at the surface."
He drew a circle around the periphery of the map.
"The size of their territory, the location of visible sentry posts, the placement of heavy weapons. This is what ordinary gangs see."
"The second level: look at the shadows."
The pencil tip moved inward, drawing a few dotted lines.
"Their supply routes, garbage disposal schedules, and how often that guy called the Rust Sage shows up."
Scarface listened, confused, but watching Cyril's focused profile, he inexplicably felt this man wasn't holding a charcoal pencil, but some kind of scalpel capable of dissecting the entire Lower Hive.
"The third level: look at the roots."
Cyril's charcoal pencil stabbed down heavily at the center of the map. The tip snapped, leaving a black mark.
"What exactly are they using to buy the Adeptus Mechanicus's support?"
Scarface nodded, half understanding, then scratched his bald head.
"Then... Boss, how do we see this third level? Do we have to infiltrate them?"
"Not necessary."
Cyril tossed the broken pencil aside and brushed the black dust from his hands.
"We need to find three types of people."
He held up one finger.
"The first type: the invisible ones who can move like ghosts between gang territories, yet no one ever gives them a second glance."
He held up a second finger.
"The second type: the ledgers of death who know where the most people have died recently and where all the bodies have gone."
He held up a third finger.
"The third type: the technical eyes who can spot at a glance what's fishy in a pile of scrap metal."
Scarface blinked, dumbfounded for several seconds, then suddenly slapped his thigh.
"Boss! You're talking about those sewer cleaners, the corpse-collecting recyclers, and those down-and-out Grease Monkeys who got kicked out of their cult?!"
Cyril wore the expression of a teacher pleased with a promising student.
"It seems you're not completely stupid. But..."
Scarface's excitement flared and died just as quickly, his face a knot of conflict.
"Boss, those bottom-feeders have the loosest tongues. They'd sell their own mothers for a few coins. What if they turn around and sell us out to the Iron Crow Gang?"
"Sell us out? Heh... heheheh..."
Cyril gave a cold laugh.
In the dim light, the menacing skull emblem on his person rotated slightly, its crimson enamel reflecting a disquieting, eerie luster.
"Haah.. Do you think they'd dare tell anyone they sold information to the Black Hand Gang?"
Cyril's voice was soft, yet it carried a whiff of blood.
"In the Lower Hive, those who live long understand one principle."
He tucked the rose knot back into his pocket and straightened his collar.
"Some money you can earn. Some secrets must rot in your gut. Otherwise, they won't even get the chance to become corpse starch."
Scarface drew a sharp, cold breath. The way he looked at Cyril had completely changed.
It was the look one gives a true predator.
"Let's go."
Cyril pushed open the rickety door of the maintenance station.
The smog from outside poured in.
"Take me to meet these eyes of the Lower Hive."