The liquid sloshed in the glass, reflecting Cyril's face, which remained calm despite being covered in grime.
"You're very smart, Cyril."
Morozha did not sit down, but stood opposite the table leaning on his cane, looking down at this man who had just crawled out of a pile of corpses.
"Smarter than I imagined."
His tone was calm, without any fluctuations, but the light emanating from his single eye was chilling.
"But in this damned Underhive, smart people often die the fastest."
Cyril picked up the glass and sniffed it at the tip of his nose.
A pungent smell of chemical alcohol hit him right in the face.
He frowned, putting the glass back on the table with disdain, and leaned back comfortably against the chair.
"Boss Morozha, is this wine poisoned, or do you want to give me a lecture on the philosophy of life?"
Cyril raised his eyelids, his gaze lazy.
"If it's the former, there's no need. If I die, you can forget about ever fixing that half of your face for the rest of your life, and you'll have to worry every day about when Slaanesh's minions will drag you into the Warp."
"If it's the latter..."
Cyril smiled, the expression carrying a hint of nonchalant mockery.
"Then you've found the wrong person. I'm an Undertaker. I'm only responsible for seeing people off, not for teaching them how to walk."
Morozha's eye twitched slightly.
That discomfort of being seen through made him very irritated.
He had originally thought he held the initiative, but the man before him was like a slippery loach, impossible to grasp no matter how much force he used.
"What do you actually want?"
Morozha's voice deepened, his mechanical prosthesis emitting a faint hum.
"Don't give me that crap about the God-Emperor's protection. I don't believe in religion. I only believe in the gun in my hand and the money in my pocket. You caused such a big commotion for much more than just saving that half-dead Lil Mouse."
"Are you threatening me, or testing me?"
Cyril did not take the bait, but instead countered with a question.
He extended a finger, lightly tapping the rim of the wine glass, producing a crisp ding.
"I helped you resolve your major headache, the Iron Crow Gang, and helped you eradicate a potential Chaos nest. Next, I can help you do even more."
Cyril leaned forward slightly, his black eyes staring directly into Morozha's single eye.
"For instance, helping you take those two strongholds you've been unable to crack for three years. Or, for example, helping you root out those traitors who have been wanting your life."
"Traitors?"
Morozha's pupil suddenly contracted.
Those words seemed to touch his most sensitive nerve.
As the leader of a gang, what he feared most was betrayal.
"What do you mean?" Morozha's voice became dangerous. "You know who the traitors are?"
"I know many things."
Cyril smiled mysteriously and leaned back in his chair again.
"What do you want to know? Want to know who's selling your arms behind your back to the Upper Nest Enforcers? Or want to know who's staring at your neck and salivating while you sleep?"
These words were like a sharp knife, precisely stabbing into Morozha's suspicious heart.
He stood up abruptly, his mechanical left hand slamming hard onto the table.
Bang!
The untouched low-grade liquor was jolted into the air, splashing all over the table.
"Don't you fucking play games with me!"
Morozha roared, spittle flying.
He grabbed Cyril's collar and lifted him out of the chair.
The metal fingers were cold and hard, choking Cyril's breath.
"If you really have that ability, prove it to me! Otherwise, I'll crush your throat right now, regardless of whether you're some envoy of the God-Emperor!"
Cyril's feet left the ground, his face turning slightly red from the lack of oxygen.
But he didn't struggle.
Even his gaze did not show the slightest panic.
He looked at the enraged Morozha as if he were looking at a beast trapped in a cage.
"Let go."
Cyril forced out two words.
His voice was very soft, yet it carried a commanding tone that could not be ignored.
"Unless you want your head to explode like that amethyst."
Morozha froze for a moment.
He saw what seemed to be a flash of golden light in Cyril's eyes.
Although it was only for an instant, that shuddering sensation from the depths of his soul made him subconsciously release his grip.
Thud.
Cyril fell back into his chair, coughed violently a few times, and reached out to straighten his crumpled collar.
"Cough, cough... how crude."
Cyril took a deep breath, suppressing the sharp pain in his chest.
That move just now almost caused his newly set ribs to dislocate again.
But he had to hold on.
This was a psychological game. Whoever showed weakness first would lose.
"Leave it to me, Morozha."
Cyril looked up at the somewhat uncertain Black Hand Gang boss, a confident curve hooking at the corner of his mouth.
"I'll prove it to you. Give me three days, and I'll deliver the Iron Crow Gang's remaining two core strongholds, the Hydroponic Farm and the Armory, completely into your hands."
"And I'll place that traitor's head on your table to use as an ashtray."
Morozha stepped back two paces, looking at the man with a complex gaze.
That sense of fear from just now had not completely faded.
But the scales of greed in his heart tilted once again.
If Cyril really could do it...
"What do you want?" Morozha asked, his voice finally regaining its calm.
"Power."
Cyril answered without hesitation.
"I want absolute say in this gang. Except for you, I won't take orders from anyone. And..."
He paused, leaning forward, his voice lowered to a whisper like a devil's murmur.
"Stop testing me, Morozha. My patience is limited, and the God-Emperor's patience is even more so. If you dare use this attitude with me again, I don't mind letting you see what a real psychic storm looks like."