He moved through the labyrinth of crumbling buildings and narrow, filth-choked streets until he reached his destination—a structure that loomed over its neighbors like a vulture over carrion. Unlike the rest of District 9, this building was well-kept, its walls scrubbed free of grime, its windows intact. The scent of cheap perfume and stale liquor clung to the air, cloying and thick.
A brothel.
Two men flanked the entrance, their massive frames blocking the way like living barricades. Their arms were crossed, their expressions carved from stone.
"We're closed," the one on the right rumbled, his voice like gravel grinding underfoot.
The boy didn't flinch. "The rat knows the walls, but the shadow knows the way."
A beat of silence. Then, recognition flickered in their eyes. Without another word, they led him around back to a rusted metal door, its surface pockmarked with dents and scratches. One of the guards rapped his knuckles against it in a rhythmic pattern—three quick, two slow.
A moment later, the door creaked open.
"The boss is waiting inside," the guard muttered before stepping aside.
The boy entered.
The man waiting for him was a grafted—a walking monument to violence and augmentation. His skin was the color of old ash, stretched taut over corded muscle. Wires erupted from the base of his skull, snaking down his spine like metallic veins. One of his arms had been replaced with a hextech monstrosity, its fingers twitching with latent energy. Scars and burns mapped his chest, each one a story the boy didn't care to hear. His lower jaw had been reforged in steel, jutting forward in a permanent underbite.
When he smiled, it was a grotesque thing.
"The boss has been expecting you," the grafted said, his voice a distorted growl. He turned, gesturing for the boy to follow.
For a fleeting moment, the boy's fingers twitched toward the knife hidden in his sleeve. A flicker of killing intent, sharp and bright. But he knew better. This man would tear him apart before the blade even left its sheath.
So he followed.
The corridor stretched before them, lined with metal doors. Some were silent. Others wept with muffled screams. The grafted glanced back every few steps, ensuring the boy hadn't vanished into the shadows.
Finally, they stopped before a door unlike the others—wooden, unassuming. But the boy knew better. This door was reinforced with mana, the lifeblood of the world. It would take more than brute force to break it down.
The grafted knocked. When no answer came, he pushed it open anyway.
The room beyond was decadence draped in shadows. A king-sized bed dominated the space, its crimson curtains drawn but doing little to obscure the silhouettes writhing within. Two women, their bodies slick with sweat, rode a man whose groans filled the air. The scent of sex and opium clung to the room like a second skin.
"Boss," the grafted called, his voice devoid of judgment. "The jit's come."
A pause. Then movement.
The man on the bed disentangled himself, rising naked and unashamed. His arousal was still evident, but his focus had shifted.
Feng Yang.
Kingpin of the Iron Jaw Gang. Second only to the Black Fangs in District 9's hierarchy of filth.
He was of average build, his skin a shade lighter than the boy's, marked by intricate tattoos—dragons coiled around his arms, their fangs bared in eternal snarls. His lower jaw, like his lackey's, had been replaced—but where the grafted's was steel, Feng Yang's was gold.
He studied the boy with lazy amusement before striding to a nearby closet and shrugging into a silk robe.
"Well," Feng Yang said, his voice smooth as poisoned honey. "How are you doing, Kael?"
The boy met his gaze, his face a mask of ice.
"Alive," he replied.