The cold metal, sharp and immediate, pressed into Tazia’s neck. Vilem’s voice, a serpent’s hiss in the sudden, suffocating darkness, grated against her ear. “Time to go back to the factory, Tazia.” Before she could react, before she could even register the sheer menace of the threat, a heavy hand clamped over her mouth, muffling the surprised gasp that bubbled up. Another arm, thick and unyielding, cinched around her waist. She felt herself lifted, dragged sideways, away from the warmth of Krevan’s presence. The air grew thick with the scent of cheap cologne and stale cigar smoke, not the refined aroma of the gala. A low thud, a muffled grunt, and then the distinct sensation of being hoisted over a broad shoulder. Panic flared, a furious, hot spike, but the hand on her mouth was too strong, too suffocating. She clawed at the arm pinning her, but it was like struggling against granite. The chaotic shouts of the bewildered gala guests swallowed the small sounds of her abduction, a perfect cacophony of cover. Krevan’s hand, which had been drawing Tazia closer, clenched on empty air. The cold, metallic rasp against her ear. The venomous murmur. He hadn’t heard the words, but the *sound* of Vilem’s voice, so close, had been unmistakable. And then, Tazia was simply *gone*. His vision, already useless in the absolute blackness, narrowed to a primal point of fury. His other hand went to the pistol holstered beneath his tailor-made suit jacket, drawing it with a faint friction of leather. He moved, not with panic, but with the terrifying, predatory efficiency of a hunter. His knuckles brushed against a discarded napkin, then a scattering of broken glass. The scent of cheap cologne, faint but distinct, cut through the perfume and champagne. A scent he associated with Vilem’s low-level muscle. He heard a muffled scuffle, a grunt, then the distinct squeak of a service door opening and closing somewhere to his left, quickly absorbed by the wider panic. “Tazia!” he roared, his voice like a physical blow, cutting through the murmurs. He didn’t wait for an answer. Every muscle in his body coiled, taut and lethal. He smashed his fist into the ornate wall sconce beside him, tearing it from its mounts with a sickening crunch of plaster and wiring. The raw, exposed wires sparked, briefly illuminating a sliver of the room, a flash of frightened faces, before plunging back into darkness. He moved, a phantom of pure violence, directly towards the service exit. He tore it open, ignoring the muffled yelps of a passing waiter, and burst into the bustling back corridors. The emergency lights here were dim, casting long, shifting shadows. He scanned the narrow hall, his eyes gleaming with lethal intent. Two of Vilem’s men, thick-necked brutes with the insignia of the ‘Coda Cartel’ tattooed on their forearms, were dragging a struggling, bundled figure towards a rear loading dock. Tazia. The anger in Krevan’s chest was a physical entity, a roaring beast. He didn’t break stride. His pistol barked twice. The first man crumpled, a crimson stain blooming on the back of his grey jacket. The second, startled, fumbled with his grip on Tazia. Krevan was on him in an instant, a whirlwind of trained brutality. A heavy boot connected with the man’s knee, snapping it with a wet crack. A pistol whip to the temple sent him sprawling, unconscious before he hit the ground. Krevan reached for Tazia, pulling her from the loading dock, her gaze fixed on him, hair dishevelled. He held her close, a silent promise of vengeance echoing in the sudden quiet of the corridor. “Are you hurt?” His voice was a low growl, barely controlled. Tazia shook her head, clinging to him. The rush of adrenaline was still singing through her veins, but the terror was replaced by a familiar, simmering rage. *Nobody* touched her, especially when she was trying to enjoy a rare night out. “He called me a factory worker,” she stated, her voice tight with suppressed fury. “He said it was time to go back to the factory.” Krevan felt the tremor in her body, heard the bitterness in her words. The implication, the sheer audacity of Vilem’s threat, turned his blood to river ice. He stroked her hair, a gesture of unexpected tenderness amidst the violence, then pulled back, his face a mask of chilling resolve. “Stay here,” he ordered, his eyes already assessing the escape routes, the shadows where more of Vilem’s men might lurk. “Brix will be here in minutes. Do not move.” He didn't need to ask if she knew who ‘he’ was. The name Vilem Coda was a bitter rasp in the back of his mind. He left Tazia with a guard he trusted, a hulking man named Jorn, then disappeared into the night, a shadow among shadows. He was a storm of focused retribution. The Rovigrad underworld braced itself, though it didn’t yet know the reason for the sudden, brutal purge. Krevan moved with ruthless precision, dismantling Vilem’s operations piece by piece. First, the gambling dens that fronted Coda’s illicit currency exchanges. Then, the back-alley distilleries funneling contraband spirits into the city. Each location yielded a fresh trail of blood, a new lead, a broken man wheezing Vilem’s name before he lost consciousness or breath. Three hours later, the *Crimson Flask* speakeasy, a known Coda cartel hub, was a wreck. Bottles shattered, tables overturned, a hazy cloud of plaster dust settling on the scene of Krevan’s rampage. He stood over the speakeasy’s manager, a greasy man named Stanimir who was trying to staunch the flow of blood from his nose with a cocktail napkin. “The book,” Krevan demanded, his voice devoid of inflection, more terrifying than any shout. Stanimir whimpered, gesturing vaguely towards a loose floorboard behind the bar. Krevan pulled it up, revealing a hidden cavity. Inside, bound in cracked leather, was Vilem’s log. It wasn’t a financial record of illicit gains, but a chilling account of human transactions. Columns of names, dates, and what could only be described as ‘foundry assignments’. Krevan flipped through the pages, his expression darkening with each entry. *Jaroslav Kolba – Veridian Mills – 5 years. Renya Vasileva – Ironworks Fabrication – Indefinite.* Vilem wasn’t just destroying lives; he was *selling* his own gang members to corrupt manufacturing magnates for grueling assembly labor. A horrifying echo of the life Tazia had escaped. The last page was a jumble of coded transmissions and hurried notes, clearly a list of active moles and their assigned tasks. One entry caught his eye: a set of coordinates, a frequency, and the words ‘Gala Power Grid – Phase 2’. A backup generator deactivation? Krevan’s grip tightened on the log, his knuckles white. Meanwhile, miles away at the Blackwood Estate, Brix paced in Krevan’s makeshift war room, muttering to himself. “Jorn says she’s fine, boss, but she’s *furious*. Says Vilem’s going to regret bringing up the… the ‘foundry’ word.” Brix peered at the jury-rigged contraption on the table, a chaotic mess of wires, salvaged circuitry, and a blinking green light. He’d ironically wired together discarded parts from Sanna Tor’s ruined gala communication tech, the very fragments that had plunged the ballroom into darkness. His peculiar brand of erratic genius had somehow coaxed it to life. A crackle, then a voice, distorted but recognizable, filtered through the static. “—rendezvous point… Ironworks complex… sector eight…” Brix’s head snapped up. “Ironworks complex!” he yelped, nearly knocking over a stack of maps. “That’s on the edge of the industrial slums, boss! Abandoned for years, but perfect for… for *velvet cells*!” He scribbled the coordinates onto a notepad, his paranoia momentarily forgotten in the rush of discovery. He relayed the information to Krevan’s encrypted comm unit. Krevan received Brix’s transmission as he was still sifting through Vilem’s log, the grim entries burning themselves into his memory. He reached the final page, a hastily scrawled note, partially obscured by a coffee stain. He decoded the last line, the words chilling him to the bone, confirming a betrayal far deeper than he had imagined. *Blackwood Estate – Backup Grid – Phase Delta… Done. Await next assignment.*

The Velvet Cell