A short while later, three figures emerged from the crowd. They were all powerfully built, tall men, clad in matching uniforms. The outfits resembled military fatigues, dyed a stark black with dull grey sleeves. This was the uniform of the Spearhead Collective. "Welcome," the leader of the Spearhead Collective said, his smile polished and polite. One of the five city agents simply extended a hand, a clear gesture of demand. "Of course," the leader said. He produced a suitcase, snapped it open, and presented it to the agent. Inside, neat stacks of paper credits filled the case to the brim. The city agent began to count the money. The process dragged on for several minutes of tense silence. "474," the agent finally announced, his voice a distorted, metallic rasp from behind his mask. A flicker of nervousness crossed the Spearhead Collective leader’s face, and the corners of his smile tightened. "Excuse me, but the count should be 482," he said. "Could you please recount?" "474," the agent repeated, his tone flat and final. The gang leader shot a look at the man to his right, giving a sharp jerk of his head. The man quickly pulled out a few more bills and handed them over. The city agent counted the new additions, then gave a curt nod. The leader of the Spearhead Collective mirrored the nod, his strained politeness returning. With their business concluded, the three men stepped to the side. "One by one, come forward," the leader shouted to the crowd. "And don't even think about cheating us." Instantly, all those wearing black pins began to move, forming a line that shuffled past the three men from the Spearhead Collective. The gang members inspected each person, collecting the black pins as they passed. When the last of them had gone through, the count stood at 479 people. The three men from the Spearhead Collective then fell in at the end of the line, bringing the total to 482. With that, four of the five city agents moved toward the less-crowded part of the marketplace, commanding everyone to form a new line. The fifth agent hung back, a silent sentinel ensuring no one tried to slip away. The people of the marketplace began to shuffle forward, each handing over their own stack of credits. Leo rose from his spot and merged with the somber procession. Moments later, he stood before one of the gas-masked figures. He handed over his stack of bills and walked past, just another face in the crowd. After several more minutes, only a sparse group of around 800 people remained in the marketplace. When the line had vanished and no one else came forward, the fifth city agent stepped up. "Last call," the agent boomed, their voice buzzing with distortion. "Anyone not coming forward now will be considered unable to pay." A new wave of fear rippled through the remaining crowd. "Alright," the agent continued. "As always, do not make any sudden movements. Do not show any aggression. The mosquitos are minions of the Siphon Swarm Echo; they will not drink more than what you owe." The crowd tensed, a collective held breath of dread and resignation. Then, the low buzzing of the mosquitos swelled to a deafening drone as they swarmed forward. The insects, each the size of a hornet, scattered among the people and began to feed. Cries of pain, ragged hyperventilating, and muttered prayers filled the air. Some gritted their teeth against the violation, while others, veterans of this monthly ritual, simply stared into space, their faces numb. As time passed, engorged mosquitos would detach and fly away, replaced by new ones from the swarm. After roughly two minutes, the ordeal was over. The mosquitos retreated, rejoining the five gas-masked agents. The remaining crowd was left visibly drained, their skin pale and taut, their bodies noticeably thinner. As a final measure, the mosquitos swept through the houses bordering the marketplace, ensuring no one was hiding inside. Satisfied, the five agents turned and walked away, their sinister buzzing fading down another street. This was the last day of the month. It was always the same. Once a month, every citizen of Crimson Sprawl owed a tax of 100 credits. There were no partial payments; you paid in full, or you didn't pay at all. Those who paid were left alone. Those who failed to pay, paid with their blood. The collectors, always accompanied by their swarms, would walk through the Scraps. If a citizen couldn't produce the credits, the mosquitos would descend upon them, draining a collective two liters of blood from an adult. Children under fourteen paid a reduced tax of 50 credits, or one liter of blood. Children under six were exempt. Losing two liters of blood wasn't lethal, and the mosquitos were unnervingly precise, leaving no lasting injuries. But a full recovery took six to eight weeks. If a citizen failed to pay the tax the following month as well, it became a dangerous, potentially fatal, cycle. Earning 100 credits in a single month was nearly impossible for most people in the Scraps, but it was manageable over two. Consequently, about half the population alternated, paying with blood one month and credits the next. Countless people had tried to fight back over the years. It always ended the same way: with a bloodless corpse left on the grimy streets. The truth was, the tax collectors didn't command the mosquitos; they accompanied them. The human agents served only two purposes: to handle the money, and to prevent the populace from panicking and provoking the swarm. If they wished, the mosquitos could drain every living soul in the Scraps in under ten minutes. There were over two thousand people living here. Their power wasn't in individual strength, but in their sheer, overwhelming numbers—millions of them, each larger than a giant hornet. Only a fraction of the swarm, perhaps a hundred per agent, was ever present for tax collection. But if a serious threat emerged, millions more would appear in an instant. These creatures were minions of a powerful entity, the Siphon Swarm Echo. It was much like the rat Leo had spoken to two years ago, which was a minion of another Echo called the Broker. Some Phantoms could puppet existing animals or even create their own, sharing their perceptions and speaking through them. While most Phantoms were enemies of humanity, a few chose to cooperate. The Blood Swarm was one of them. The Broker was not. The Blood Swarm gained power by consuming human blood. It could have gathered it in secret, sending its minions to feed on sleeping citizens, but to do so on a large scale would have attracted the attention of the truly powerful Flux Manufacturers, who would have certainly destroyed it. So, the Echo struck a deal, and Crimson Sprawl was the perfect partner. The city was named for its greatest asset and prisoner: the Crimson Core, a Echo confined within the city’s most prestigious Flux Corporation. Unlike most powerful Phantoms, the Crimson Core was not intelligent. It was exactly what its name implied—a colossal fungus living inside a containment unit. Like the Blood Swarm, the Crimson Core fed on human blood. In return for this sustenance, it produced two things: electricity for the city, and more importantly, Flux. Flux was a miracle substance, a fundamental source of power that could be converted into electricity, heat, or kinetic energy with incredible efficiency. It could also be used to amplify the abilities of Flux Extractors and forge weapons capable of destroying Phantoms. The Crimson Core was why the Blood Swarm had chosen this city. The Echo aided the Flux Corporation in collecting blood, and in exchange, it was allowed to keep a portion for itself. The rest was fed to the Crimson Core, which would then secrete raw Flux. Flux Extractors would harvest the substance, keeping a small amount as payment. The Flux Corporation would then use the rest to expand its power or sell it to other cities. But to grow, to earn more, they needed to contain even stronger Phantoms. And to do that, they needed stronger Flux Extractors. This was what Leo aspired to become. To be a Flux Conduit was to have a chance at power, at a life beyond this filth. Leo wanted to escape the Scraps. He wanted, finally, to live.

Chapter 4: Counting the Cost