Recently, a rumor had begun to whisper through Lower Babel's alleys: somewhere inside a fashionable "pub" you could meet a guide to the Undercity.

Lost Lullaby was the so-called pub—though up close it looked more like a palace plucked from another dynasty. Five lofty stories of crimson timber rose against the neon glare, each tier crowned by a sweeping, dragon-back roof tiled in jade glaze. Yellow lanterns dangled from carved eaves, quivering in the breeze like captive fireflies and spilling molten topaz over the rain-slick pavement. Beneath a lacquered moon-gate, lacquered doors of blood-red wood sighed inward, releasing patrons into a hush of climate-controlled calm.

Inside, the décor abandoned nostalgia for cold geometry: matte-black pillars, recessed amber sconces, and seamless ebony floors polished to a mirror sheen. Discreet holoscreens projected tickers of commodity futures over a minimalist bar of smoked glass. The clientele—executives in charcoal suits, corporate fixers with neural-link briefcases—spoke in low, measured tones, the clink of ice cubes punctuating their deals like a muted metronome.

"Are you sure he's here?" Zeke asked, his mask catching prismatic reflections from a wall of imported whiskey.

"That's what the boss said, super-boss," Mohawk replied, fiery hair still damp from the drizzle outside.

"Super-boss?" Fredric laughed, the sound echoing faintly off the high ceiling's acoustic baffles.

"What else do you expect me to call him?!" Mohawk shouted, drawing a few sidelong glances.

"He's our boss' boss, so technically he's our overboss. But that sounded kinda lame so we called him super-boss," Bun explained, shrugging.

"We also considered Omega-boss and boss boss as alternatives but none of the carried that same ring," Mohawk added with an earnest nod.

Zeke exhaled, a thin fog inside his mask visor, and turned away from their banter just as a lattice of holographic koi drifted beneath his boots—floor LEDs cycling through an ornamental display.

"Do they really call you that?" Fredric asked, laughing uncontrollably.

"Yes," Zeke sighed. "Anyway, so where is this guy supposed to be?" he wondered, surveying the mezzanine balconies that overlooked the atrium like private opera boxes.

"Apparently, lodge D-12" Bun replied.

"D -12 huh?" Fredric mused. "Excuse me!" He raised a hand, flagging the nearest waiter.

The waiter materialized with practiced glide: mid-twenties, frosted-tip hair brushed to gravity-defying peaks, long silver earrings trembling against the velvet buzz of synth-jazz. Heavy makeup—lead lipstick, flawless concealer, painstaking lashes—rendered his face doll-smooth. A midnight tang-suit hugged his frame, red silk roses curling across the fabric like living vines.

"Yes, how can I help you, dears?" he replied in a lilting falsetto.

"We're looking for room D-12," Fredric explained.

"Sure thing, honey! But before I tell you where to find it I must warn you that we have a strict no mask policy here," the waiter said, fingers painting flourishes in the air.

"We're an exception," Zeke growled, voice pitched to a servo-cold monotone.

The waiter's gaze dipped to the onyx Don's ring riding atop Zeke's gloved knuckle; color drained from his rouge.

"I don't want any trouble," he murmured.

"D-12" Zeke grunted.

"Sure thing, love!" The waiter giggled—high, nervous. "You can find it on the third floor. See that purple balcony over there," he pointed. "That's zone D. Just go up there and look for the room with the number 12."

"Thank you for the help," Fredric said through his mask, voice all velvet charm.

"Sure thing," the waiter muttered, eyes sliding elsewhere. "I don't get paid enough for this," floated back as he retreated toward the bar.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

They ascended a cantilevered stair of dark Iroko wood; violet LEDs pulsed under each step, guiding them into a warren of lacquered corridors. Zone D unfurled around a central lightwell where plum-colored draperies cascaded from ceiling to balustrade, catching the glow of concealed uplights and bleeding royal hues across the air.

Door 12 waited behind a sliding panel of smoked glass etched with twin phoenixes. The moment it parted, the mood changed: heat, nicotine, and desperation spilled into the hallway like an exhaled secret.

Inside, the "lodge" resembled a bunker turned opium den. Foam-stripped sofas slumped against walls scrawled with gang insignia; low tables, scarred by cigarette burns, overflowed with brass shell casings and half-empty bottles of Baijiu. A single tungsten bulb dangled from frayed wire, its jaundiced glare zagging shadows across tattooed faces.

"Who is this?" one of the armed men asked, fingers drumming on a compact SMG.

"We've heard that you can transport people into the Undercity," Fredric said. "I was wondering if you could help us get in."

From the far couch rose a mountain of flesh: a fat man in a fraying denim vest, cybernetic eye whirring crimson. He eased back, propping mud-caked boots on the table; flakes of dried grout scattered across old bloodstains. A match flared, carving orange hollows in his cheeks before he drew on a cigar thick as a child's wrist.

"Ten grand per person, payment up front," he said, each syllable riding a plume of oily smoke.

"Money," Zeke ordered without looking away.

Mohawk swung the case onto the table; inside, ten sky-blue data drives glittered like crystal teeth. Zeke plucked four and flicked them forward; they clacked against the tabletop near the man's boots.

"No tip?" the man asked, gray ash drifting from his cigar.

"You didn't do shit yet," Zeke growled, pupils narrowing to predatory slits.

"Fine," the man grunted, rising—cigar ember glowing like a spiteful star. "Follow me."

They exited through a graffiti-tagged stairwell that smelled of rust and dried noodles, emerging into an alley bristling with neon trash signs and puddles reflecting the city's hive-green skyline. A modded jeep idled there, armor-plated panels wrapped in a licking flame decal. Two more muscle cars lurked behind, engines rumbling low.

"So why do you want to go to the Undercity so badly?" the gangster from before asked as they clambered into the jeep's gutted rear seats. "You've done something you shouldn't have?"

"Precisely," Fredric smirked. "We heard the Undercity is a perfect place for illegal contractors like us."

The man barked a laugh that rattled the glovebox. "You're right about that! You won't find a single leggy in that place," he said, then settled into silence, letting the jeep's tires hiss through the rain-damp streets.

Eventually they rolled off the arterial highway and into a derelict zone zoned off by sagging chain-link, the headlights of the convoy flashing across hazard placards long since bleached white by acid rain. Their destination loomed ahead: a half-born mega-tower that had hemorrhaged investors mid-construction.

The lower four floors stood mostly intact—tinted curtain walls already fogged with grime, lobby doors chained but cracked just wide enough for trespass—but everything above that looked like a skeleton frozen mid-rise. Jagged rebar speared skyward in rust-flecked bundles, scaffolding hung like cobwebs, and a lone tower crane jutted through the roof plates, its boom frozen in permanent salute to a skyline that no longer cared. Rainwater pooled in concrete cavities, reflecting the crane's silhouette in jittering puddles that smelled of iron and mildew.

Inside, the gang had commandeered what must once have been a marketing suite. They'd tried to civilize the raw concrete with scavenged luxuries: gilt-framed landscapes pried from hotel corridors, plush chairs torn from executive lounges, a single mahogany table whose Queen-Anne legs looked absurd on the rough slab floor. None of it matched—velvet next to vinyl, marble busts beside plastic crates—and the effect felt less like décor and more like ransom.

A dozen armed men slouched among the furnishings, rifles balanced across knees. The air was gelatinous with cigarette smoke and the oily sweetness of cheap incense that failed to mask sweat and rust. At the room's center, a single figure owned the space without trying: black leather boots planted on a threadbare Persian rug, cargo pants stuffed with tools, neon-green hood shadowing a ceramic white mask. Over his shoulders stretched a dark-red bomber jacket stitched with a stylized butterfly—wings spread, proboscis curled like a question.

"Boss, several more wish to enter the Undercity," the fat gangster announced, wiping drizzle from his cyber-eye lens.

"Perfect!" the masked figure cried, voice bright with showman's glee. "Nice to meet you. My name is Ray. I am the leader of this ragtag group. I am also the person who will take you to the Undercity."

"Yeah? And how are you going to do that?" Zeke inquired, tone flat as gunmetal.

"You see, I know of a way in," Ray said, pacing a slow semicircle across the rug. "Me and Prowler, one of the leaders of the Undercity, go way back. With his help I can take you guys in."

"The Prowler? Who is that?" Fredric asked, tilting his head.

"A massive muscle mountain of a man," Ray said, infusing the words with campfire mystery. "They say he moves completely silently and is as strong as an army. His magic suffocates all who come in range, and as he approaches his victims, the last thing they see is a dark shadow looming over them."

Mohawk exploded into laughter, doubling over until his palms slapped the dusty rug. Tears blurred the neon stripes dyed into his hair.

"What's so funny?" the fat gangster asked, brows knitting.

"Oh, you know," Mohawk said, dabbing at his eyes. "It's just that the Prowler is standing right in front of you, yet you failed to recognize him."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.