I descended once more into the depths of Zirathion—the city that never sleeps, never shows mercy, and never grants a second chance to those who err.
In less than an hour, I had moved from the technological luxury of the penthouse to dampness and rot.
I now stood in the same muddy market where I had first encountered that little girl.
The gray mud was still cold, clinging to shoes as if trying to drag passersby downward.
The foul stench of burnt engine oil and human waste filled every breath, mingling with the scent of the lightly falling acidic rain.
I had no tracking device, nor did I possess any intelligence threads in this sector yet. But I had something that could open even the most difficult doors in Zirathion: money—and a killing intent that froze veins.
I walked forward with confident steps and sharp eyes toward that worn-out wooden stall.
