Chapter Text
Air down here was always thick. Heavy. Most had learned to train their lungs just to survive it, even when the taste of rust clung to the back of their throats. The darkness never lifted—only the weak glow of lanterns and the occasional shaft of light from above gave shape to the streets. The city breathed a dim, feverish glow, like a wound that never healed.
Crooks, whores, and the forgotten made their homes here. Society’s waste, tucked beneath the ground like something to be ashamed of. A dense sprawl of desperation and survival. The only exit—an iron staircase—was always watched. Heavily. Even if you managed to pay your way up, proof of surface residence was a rare miracle. Most ended up right back where they started.
So, when one lone rat darted through the city’s veins, no one paid it any mind. Just another shadow, trying not to starve. Their body wove through the crowd, slipping past swaying drunks and stumbling feet, weaving between the weight of lives packed too tightly into crumbling stone. Now and then, a shoulder caught theirs, a grunt followed—but no one truly noticed. Not down here.
A faint smile lingered beneath the frayed edge of a brown cloak. The figure’s shape was blurred beneath layers of tattered clothing: boots soft with wear and pocked with holes, dark brown pants scrunched at the knees, and an oversized beige shirt nearly swallowed by the cloak’s folds.
They moved quickly, light on their feet, until finally ducking into a narrow alley, vanishing into shadow to catch a breath. Just a moment. A break from the thieving, the pushing, the watching. A faint smile hid beneath a fraying brown cloak. Their figure was shapeless under layers of tattered clothing—boots with holes in the soles, dark brown pants bunched up to the knees, and an oversized beige cotton shirt swallowed beneath the cloak’s folds.
Finally, with no prying eyes in sight, the hooded figure pushed back their cloak’s hood, letting their face meet the stale city air. A hand swept back through short brown hair, cropped into a sharp undercut—practical, easy to manage. Deep brown eyes flicked around the alley, never resting for long, always scanning. Always wary.
For a moment, the figure glanced at the spoils collected during the day’s festivities. Most of it was forgettable, useful only for trade or survival. But two items stood out—two that made their pulse tighten just from the sight of them.
They considered dumping them. It would be smart. Safer. But the thought lingered: if they dropped them here, some other desperate fool might pick them up and not live to regret it.
In one hand, a small, engraved box nestled a sharp, glinting needle—a black-market stimulant. The kind merchants killed to protect. The kind Military Police turned a blind eye to, so long as it stayed in the right hands.
In the other, a worn leather pouch. Light, but deadly valuable: ODM gas canisters. Hard to come by. Priceless down here. And dangerous—especially when rumours told of thugs who flew through the alleyways on stolen gear.
Their leader was whispered about in every shadowed corner. A dark-haired man with eyes like a blade—unforgiving, efficient. He didn’t just chase down thieves. He cut them apart.
A sigh slipped past their lips. “Fuck,” they muttered, cursing themself. One last glance around—nothing unusual. Just drunks, merchants, and the restless shuffle of Underground life. Still, the stolen goods were tucked deeper into the satchel beneath the cloak, and the hood was pulled low once more.
They didn’t notice the figure trailing a few paces behind. Silent. Measured. Watching. One of the items’ true owners had been following longer than they would have believed.
Slipping back into the crowd, their body moved on instinct, thoughts circling like vultures. The stimulant and gas could sell for enough to keep them fed for a month, maybe more. But the risk? Too high. Too many black-market dealers were loyal to bigger names—names that didn’t forgive theft.
No decision came. Only that rising tension crawling up the spine. Footsteps. Just behind. Steady. Unchanging. They picked up the pace. So did the follower.
You’ve been caught.
A sharp turn into a narrow alley offered a fleeting sense of safety—until it didn’t. Three figures stood ahead. Broad-shouldered. Cold-eyed. Scarred. Blocking the exit like they’d been waiting.
Finally, they looked back. Two more men now sealed the path behind—overfed and slow-moving, but solid, dangerous.
Trapped.
They pressed their tongue against the inside of their cheek, mind racing through calculations. The odds. The angles. The weapons.
In one smooth motion, the hood was pushed back. They stepped to the side of the alley, away from center, keeping distance. Eyes darted left, then right—assessing each threat. The baggy clothes had their purpose. Underneath: knives. Small, sharp, and plenty of them.
Clearing their throat, they tilted their head, voice low and laced with mock ease. “Problem, gentlemen?” A smirk played at the corner of their lips—meant to disarm, to delay. Anything but fear.
The largest of the men stepped forward, tattoos crawling up his thick neck. His voice came like gravel and heat. “Boy, I think you’ve got something of ours.”
That one would be a problem. The three lean ones? Lightweights, maybe sixty kilos if that. But the two big ones—muscle, weight, and confidence—gave pause. A direct fight would be a mistake.
But pulling them into the alley hadn’t been a mistake—not entirely. There were no MPs here. No patrolling boots. No street rats loitering on crates. Just shadows, rot, and five men too confident for their own good. If they played it smart, this could be over before anyone noticed.
The circle was tightening. Footsteps slow and deliberate, like wolves savoring a cornered kill. The stench of sweat and cheap liquor clung to the air. Stone walls, slick with grime, boxed them in from both sides. A rusted pipe dripped overhead. Somewhere, a rat squealed.
They steadied their breath, One hand slipped beneath the cloak, fingers brushing the cold edge of steel.
“Oh, this?” the voice came, low and unbothered, as they pulled the small engraved box from the folds of their satchel. The stimulant. Its polished casing caught the dim alley light like a whisper of silver. The men’s eyes locked on it instantly. That was the bait.
In one smooth, casual motion, the box flew through the air—straight toward the biggest man. He reached out, instincts overpowering caution.
That was all it took.
A blur of motion. The soft shick of a blade drawn. Then—
A wet, ripping sound as steel carved through flesh. The man’s eyes bulged. Blood frothed at his lips. A horrible, choking gurgle tore out of his throat as he clutched at the wound blooming across his neck. He collapsed to the ground like dead weight.
Before the others could react, the second large man was already falling. A flash of movement, a twist of the wrist—steel finding ribs. He let out a short grunt, more shock than pain, before crumpling into the shadows.
Two down.
Blood splattered the alley walls in thick arcs, steaming against the chill. The remaining three froze where they stood, blades now drawn, faces pale under the smears of filth.
They moved quickly, rolling under the falling body, spinning low to the ground. Their boots skidded across damp stone, knees bent, landing in a crouch with practiced precision. They pivoted sharply mid-motion to face the three survivors.
The alley felt smaller now. More suffocating. The stink of blood filled every breath.
“Now, now,” they said, rising slowly, voice dripping mockery. “Isn’t this a bit unfair? Three against one?”
The smirk on their face didn’t match the blood staining their blade.
The three men didn’t answer. Their eyes flicked between the corpses, uncertainty blooming in their posture. What once looked like an easy mark now looked like a demon in human skin—small, fast, and far too calm.
Blades clenched. Feet shuffled. No one moved. No one wanted to be next.
The cloaked figure scanned the three. No clear exit. No crowd to melt into. It was kill or be carved open in the dark.
But panic wasn’t their weapon—calculation was.
The one in the middle stood straighter than the others. Older. Smarter. Not trembling like the rest. That one had steel behind the eyes. Dangerous. But predictable.
With exaggerated slowness, the figure dropped their blade, letting it clatter into the gutter’s metal grate with a ringing finality. Hands lifted lazily, and they rubbed the back of their neck as if stretching, as if tired.
“Oh no,” they drawled, voice teasing. “Guess my luck’s run out. What can a small body like me do against three scary men?”
A smirk followed, shameless and deliberate.
The words hit like a slap. The man on the left snapped. “Fuck you!” he barked, veins popping at his temple, and he charged—knife glinting in the dim alley light, footsteps heavy and reckless.
Too easy.
In a heartbeat, the figure dropped low—sliding across the wet, cracked stone like a shadow come unglued. A leg shot out, slamming into the runner’s shins with brutal force.
The man’s balance vanished. His body pitched forward, knees twisting, face smashing into the ground with a crack that echoed. Teeth scattered like dice across the alley.
Before the other two could even curse, a quick pivot threw the cloaked figure back onto their feet. Filthy water, kicked up mid-slide, splashed into the eyes of the remaining men—stalling them for a fatal second.
That was enough.
Two blades hissed free. One from a hidden thigh sheath, the other from inside a boot. In a blink, the figure was on them—one step, two. The first blade bit deep into the curve of a neck, slicing through sinew and windpipe in a hot spray of arterial blood. A gargled shriek never made it past the second man’s lips before the second knife drove up under his jaw, punching through soft tissue, into the brain.
They dropped like sacks of wet meat, twitching. Eyes wide. Gone.
The alley smelled of copper and piss. Steam rose from fresh blood soaking into cracked stone. The only sound left was the wheezing breath of the first attacker—still alive, crawling, broken.
But there wasn’t time.
The figure turned—just in time to see the last man, the one with the stimulant box, already sprinting.
“Shit.”
They sheathed their blades, sprinting toward the fire escape, coat whipping behind them like a shadow on fire. Hands gripped the cold, rust-flaked metal. Feet landed on narrow rungs, climbing fast—two at a time. The stink of blood still clung to them, sweat mixing with filth in the damp air.
At the rooftop’s edge, they launched over the gap between buildings—boots thudding hard on wet shingles, then again on the next. Arms pumping, legs coiled like springs, they leapt from wall to pipe to rooftop, breath shallow but measured.
The skyline down here was jagged and ugly—chimneys spewing filth, cables hanging like veins from building to building. Somewhere below, voices called out. But no one looked up. No one ever did.
Finally, they reached the squat, half-collapsed structure wedged between two larger tenements. Barely noticeable. No doors. Just a cracked attic window, its latch long broken.
They grabbed the edge of the ledge and hauled themselves inside, boots scraping against the rotted wood as they rolled into the space like a ghost returning to its coffin.
Silence. Dark. Dust hung thick in the air.
The attic was barely larger than a storage closet. The ceiling sloped low enough to force a crouch. A threadbare blanket lay bunched in one corner beside a pile of scavenged goods—a half-sharpened blade, mismatched boots, a cracked mirror, and a chipped mug with lukewarm tea still inside. A single lantern flickered on a nail
Home. If it could be called that. But it was hidden. It was theirs.
They dropped the blood-speckled cloak to the floor, chest rising in shallow, steady breaths. Fingers—still tacky with drying blood—brushed hair from their eyes as they kicked the door shut with a dull thud.
The satchel hit the ground next. Scavenged goods spilled across the warped floorboards, but they didn’t care. The gas canisters were tossed onto the cot, clinking against the metal frame. Not the most discreet landing, but exhaustion dulled the edge of caution.
They lifted their shirt and winced through clenched teeth. The bindings around their chest held firm, but a fresh, shallow cut beneath the ribs pulsed hot—blood already soaking down one pant leg, a slow bleed. Manageable, but messy.
Before they could inspect it further—
“I don’t appreciate being followed.”
The hem dropped instantly. A knife was in hand before the words finished hanging in the air—swift, fluid. But another hand was faster. Strong fingers closed around their wrist with vice-like precision, halting the strike mid-turn.
“Don’t embarrass yourself,” the voice replied—cool, flat, unhurried. “You’re bleeding out and swinging half-blind. Try again, and I’ll put you through the floorboards.”
The words were steel wrapped in cloth—unflinching, sharp, and utterly unimpressed.
The flickering lantern—still trembling from the earlier window slam—finally lit the stranger’s face.
Fucking hell.
Jaw locked. Eyes narrowed.
He stood just taller, but it wasn’t his size that unsettled—it was the presence. Shoulders squared beneath a worn dress shirt and brown vest, boots silent on the wood. His blue eyes cut like a whetted blade, cold and unblinking, studying with a precision that felt invasive. Not assessing. Measuring.
There was no swagger. No heat. Just a quiet, ruthless certainty.
His hair was black, cropped short with brutal efficiency—like everything else about him. A mirror of their own, but sharper. Cleaner. Controlled.
They didn’t need a name. The Underground already whispered it behind every alley and iron stair.
Levi.