In the labyrinthine depths of Lower Babel's streets, there existed a place that had recently garnered much attention. A haven where souls of all kinds converged for myriad reasons—a place where the affluent mingled and the destitute drowned themselves in depravity. It was a club famed for its opulence, enchanting women, and exorbitantly priced drinks. This was Artificial love. Its neon lights beckoned like sirens in the dark, promising escape while concealing untold secrets beneath the surface.

By the time Zeke, Fredric, Mitch, Mohawk, and Bun arrived at the club, it was already 2 a.m. The city's veins pulsed with shadows, illuminated only by flickering streetlamps and the kaleidoscope of neon signs clinging to the buildings like electric ivy. The air was thick with the mingled scents of rain and asphalt, a cold breeze whispering promises of chaos.

The club stood proudly at the nexus of the intersection—a towering beacon of decadence, plastered from head to toe with pulsating neon billboards and signs. A luxurious crimson carpet spilled out from the entrance, flanked by two colossal sentinels in black suits. Their piercings glinted under the neon glow, and intricate facial tattoos twisted across their stern visages, amplifying their intimidating presence.

As they neared, they saw a serpentine queue of eager patrons snaking toward the entrance, each face painted with anticipation and impatience under the strobing lights.

"It's your cue," Zeke remarked.

"Yeah, yeah," Mohawk replied, lowering his gaze as he stepped up to one of the guards.

"We're here to see the boss," he murmured.

"You're here again? Did you get called in?" one of the guards asked with a surly attitude.

"Who're those weirdos?" the other guard questioned, eyeing the masked figures.

"I'm known as the Prowler," Zeke replied calmly.

"Hah! The Prowler," the guard scoffed. "What kind of stupid nickname is that? You look like a masked freak to me."

"No masks allowed inside," the other guard sternly interjected. "Either take them off or get lost."

"Ahhh, but what if I don't wanna?" Fredric mockingly retorted.

"Then get the hell out," one of the guards growled, stepping forward to square up to Fredric.

In a flash, Fox moved. His foot struck the back of the guard's leg with lightning speed, and before anyone could blink, his hand was pressing firmly atop the guard's head.

"What the—?!" the guard exclaimed, struggling to stand. But Fox's grip was unyielding, keeping him pinned as he writhed in futile resistance.

"I'm not a fan of you talking to your honored guests like that. I think I might need to reeducate you," Fox said, his eyes glinting with a golden hue.

"Fox!" Zeke shouted. "Let him go," he murmured.

Mitch stood motionless, awe-struck by the swift display.

The guard scurried back to his comrade, crawling along the ground. "These guys—they're the real deal," he grunted.

The other guard nodded, hastily pulling out a walkie-talkie. "Hey boss, there's a guy with a mouthpiece mask calling himself the Prowler. He came with another guy wearing a fox mask," the guard spoke into the radio.

"Shoo them away," a voice crackled back.

"We can't; they're too tough," the guard replied anxiously.

"Did they come alone?" the voice inquired.

"No, Mohawk, Bun, and that boxing gym guy came along with them," the guard answered.

"Oh, those losers," the voice sighed. "Fine, let them in."

Immediately, the automated doors slid open, inviting the group inside.

As they stepped past the threshold, the club enveloped them in a maelstrom of flashing lights and pounding music. A throng of bodies writhed on the central dance floor, bathed in strobing colors that painted the industrial interior with a surreal glow. Overhead, lights hung from bare concrete ceilings, casting erratic shadows. Twin glass staircases spiraled upward on either side, leading to upper balconies fenced with rebar ornaments—preventing the rowdy patrons from tumbling over the edge of their glass-enclosed private lodges. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and alcohol, a haze that blurred the line between reality and illusion. Yet beneath the pulsating rhythm, an undercurrent of danger hummed, waiting to erupt.

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Immediately after entering, the group was greeted by two men brandishing automatic rifles at their sides.

"Illegal firearms out in the open," Mitch growled, drawing the attention of the guards.

"Hello," Fox leaned in smoothly. "Where can we find your boss?"

"Towards the back," one of the guards pointed. "The VVIP room."

"Walk," the other guard ordered. "We'll escort you from the back."

"VVIP," Bun mused aloud. "I wonder why it's called that?"

"It stands for very very important person, dumbass," Mohawk whispered back aggressively.

"I know that!" Bun retorted. "But why the double 'very' though?"

"It's obviously to separate the very important guests from the very very important ones," Mohawk shook his head in exasperation.

The group walked toward the very back of the building. There, a circular glass lounge awaited, draped in royal red hues with a large half-circle sofa and a polished mahogany table. Seated on the sofa was a man with medium-length slicked-back brown hair and a scar slicing across his right cheek. He wore an ornate suit and was surrounded by eight armed men.

"Welcome," the man said, a sly smile playing on his lips. "My name is Derek Archer. I'm the owner of this establishment."

With a snap of his fingers, two gorgeous women appeared, dressed in short dresses and stockings. They glided over, leaning intimately on Fredric and Zeke. The two girls were pale blondes with bright blue eyes and sharp, alluring features—they seemed identical, almost as if they were the same person.

Homunculi, Fox thought to himself, recognizing the artificial perfection.

"So why have you come here?" Derek asked with a slight smirk.

"We've come to ask—" Zeke began but paused as he noticed the girls starting to move.

Suddenly, a loud slam echoed, momentarily drowning out the thumping music. Zeke had gripped the two girls by their delicate necks, his rough leather gloves pressing against their soft skin. His fingers acted as a cushion, preventing harm from the abrupt action. Beside them, on the table, lay two identical knives with glass vials running along their ridges.

"Neurotoxin," Fredric smirked knowingly.

"We've come to ask about the Bull-Head Boxer's debt," Zeke continued in a monotone, his eyes piercing through Derek.

"That's right! I remember now," one of the thugs exclaimed. "The Prowler was the name of that Undercity figure."

Immediately, the men encircled the group, raising their firearms in preparation to fire. Mohawk and Bun raised their hands, trembling in fear. Mitch sighed, "It's fi—"

"Amateurs," Zeke scoffed. "No combat unit would ever encircle opponents while wielding firearms. If you fire now, you will kill yourselves and your customers. I wonder if you would even hit us. Me, on the other hand, I have my targets right where I want them." He glanced down at the two girls. "You know, these two are terribly frail. One slip of my hands, and their heads roll like dice."

"Alright, you win!" Derek conceded, exhaling sharply. "Men, lower your guns," he ordered.

Immediately, the tension dissipated as the guards lowered their weapons, though they remained wary.

"Now tell me," Zeke released his grip on the girls. "About this debt."

The two girls stood up, their faces pale, and swiftly exited the room.

"Why should I?" Derek leaned back, casually placing his feet on the table.

In a flash, a knife flew faster than anyone could react, slicing mere millimeters from Derek's neck and leaving only a thin scratch.

"Talk. Now!" Zeke demanded, his voice cold and unyielding.

"Fine! The Bull-Head Boxer had no debt to speak of. The debt we've been asked to collect belonged to Jamie, Mitch's brother. He paid us off for collecting the debt from Mitch and kidnapping him," Derek explained, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

"So where is Jamie now?" Zeke pressed.

"Apparently, he got in touch with some smugglers whom he paid for entry into the Undercity. The smuggler claimed he knew the Prowler and that he worked for him," Derek replied.

"What a mess," Fredric sighed.

"Then he's most likely dead," Zeke stated bluntly. "There is no smuggler capable enough to take people inside the Undercity unnoticed. Nothing can get past the gaze of the Contractor King."

"I don't think it's as unlikely as you say," Mitch frowned. "You're probably just overestimating the Undercity's security!"

"Well, it's not that it's unlikely. I mean, it's literally impossible to enter without anyone noticing. Believe me when I say it—that place is a lot crazier than you think," Zeke explained. "Either way, I'll track this smuggler down for you. I can't have him keep using my name."

"By the way," Zeke turned his gaze back to Derek. "Who was the original debt owed to?"

"The Golden Baron Casino, run by Maki Lin," Derek revealed.

"Dammit!" Mitch exclaimed, clutching his head.

"What? You know her?" Zeke asked.

"Yeah," Mitch replied grimly. "She's bad news."

"How much is it that you need to pay back?" Zeke inquired.

"Twenty-five grand," Mitch answered.

"What's your cut?" Zeke glanced toward Derek.

"Five grand," he replied, visibly shaken. "But his brother already paid us that much, so it's fine."

"We're off to the casino then," Zeke stretched his arms, a hint of weariness creeping in. "This is gonna be an even longer night than I thought."

Fox sighed, pulling out his phone to make a brief call.

"It's fine, we can go home," he explained upon hanging up. "Everything's taken care of."

"What do you mean?" Zeke asked, a hint of confusion in his voice.

"Maki Lin is my ex," Fredric admitted with a sigh.

"Huh?!" Zeke exclaimed, eyes widening in disbelief.

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