I was about to slip off after the boss — you know, like a shadow in stilettos, if shadows could also wink and look fabulous while walking — when the correctional officer's voice came crashing through the cavern air like a drunken god clearing his throat.
"Lunch break!" he bellowed, gruff, rude, and so flatly authoritative that I could practically see the words themselves marching in formation out of his mouth. I swear, if his tone had a smell, it'd be burnt coffee and cigarette ash. The sound bounced around the stalactites and into my skull, rattling around with my thoughts in a way that told me this wasn't optional.
I sighed — the long, dramatic kind of sigh that deserved its own violin accompaniment — and decided, well, if Fate was calling me to lunch, who was I to deny her? Besides, I knew what this meant. The dining hall. The crowd. The watchful eyes. It wasn't the place I'd planned to meet him, but if I'd learned anything in my previous life, it was that sometimes the stage chooses you. And when it does, you'd better be in costume.
With a resigned smirk, I first slipped into the delicate lingerie, the cool fabric clinging damply to my skin like a whispered secret against my heat-soaked flesh.
Next came the thigh highs, hugging my legs with a tight, teasing embrace that made me stand a little taller—even if only in my own mind.
Then I grabbed my discarded blouse from Brutus, its fabric slick and clammy, and slid it over my shoulders, each movement slow and deliberate, a ritual of reclaiming my carefully curated armor.
The miniskirt snapped around my hips last, wrapping me in its daring challenge to anyone bold enough to judge, sealing the whole ensemble like a secret promise of rebellion tucked just beneath the surface.
I glanced over at Brutus. He just gave me this slow, silent nod, like the kind a seasoned executioner gives before pulling the lever. Apparently, lunch was serious business for him.
We followed the officer in that casual, strolling way that says, Yes, I belong here, and yes, you should be looking at me while I walk. The cavern floor crunched under my boots — every sound magnified in the echo-chamber gloom — until the tunnel opened into the so-called "dining hall." I say "hall" because that's the polite thing to call it. In truth, it looked like a giant mouth had taken a bite out of the cavern wall and then decided to fill the hole with tables.
Not neat rows, mind you. Oh no. Whoever arranged the seating here clearly had the aesthetic sensibilities of a drunken sculptor. The round tables were scattered like spilled coins, some of them cracked in half as if the mountain had indigestion. A few had collapsed entirely, leaving sad little stumps of table legs jutting up like broken teeth. The air was thick with the mixed smells of stone dust, cheap stew, and the kind of sweat that clings to men who believe washing is a sign of weakness.
Brutus and I were the last to enter. I didn't mind. It meant all the eyes that turned toward us saw only us — the way a spotlight hits the leads when the rest of the cast has already shuffled into place.
We ambled toward a table where a nervous-looking man was seated. He had that twitchy, wide-eyed look of someone who'd spent too long listening for footsteps behind him. His gaze kept darting from one end of the hall to the other like he was expecting someone to leap out from under the soup vats and stab him with a ladle.
When we got close enough, he whipped toward us with all the fragile bravado of a man trying to bluff with a two and a seven.
"These seats are reserved," he said — or tried to say, but it came out in that high-pitched way that suggests he didn't fully believe it himself.
Brutus didn't even bother replying. He just reached down, grabbed the man by the collar, and hoisted him up like he weighed about as much as an unimpressive pillow. The man yelped — a short, strangled sound — before Brutus tossed him over his shoulder with the kind of casual disinterest I usually reserve for flicking lint off my clothes. The poor soul hit the ground with a sound that made me wince despite myself — a visible crack like something important inside him had just decided to retire.
Brutus sat down as though nothing had happened.
I let out a low, appreciative whistle and slid into the seat next to him. "My, my," I said, crossing my legs and leaning an elbow on the table. "You always treat strangers so gently? Or is this just your version of a handshake?"
He rolled his eyes, which for Brutus was basically a sonnet. "He was in my way."
"I bet you say that about everyone who isn't already on the floor," I teased, giving him a smile that I knew he was trying very hard to ignore. "Remind me never to stand between you and a dessert cart."
We were still in that playful stalemate when my curiosity got the better of me. "So," I said, tilting my head, "how exactly did a guy like you end up in Section Twelve in the first place?"
Brutus shrugged, eyes flicking to the stew being ladled out across the room. "Got caught in the act."
I arched a brow. "That's wonderfully vague. The act of what? Please tell me it was something scandalous and not just jaywalking."
"My boss is a drug lord," he said flatly.
I blinked. "Oh. Well. That's… charming."
"I was one of his biggest dealers, until I got caught. They sent me here as punishment."
I leaned back, taking him in again with fresh eyes. Suddenly, the way he'd earlier convinced half the prisoners to practically line up for my scandel made perfect sense. "So that's why you're so good at working a crowd. I thought you were just naturally charismatic, but no — you're a salesman. And you've been upselling your whole life."
He actually cracked a smile at that — small, but real. "Guess you could say that."
We went back and forth like that for a while, trading barbs and watching each other over the chipped rim of our bowls. Somewhere along the line, the banter stopped being just for the sake of keeping my wits sharp. I found myself genuinely laughing at some of his remarks, and I caught him doing the same.
He surprised me by asking, "Why don't you just request a re-evaluation of your rank? You've obviously made a name for yourself. I mean… look at you. Even the guards talk about you."
I sighed, the weight of that question pressing down like a wet blanket on a warm day. "I've tried. Over and over. But the High Warden keeps blocking my requests."
At the mention of the High Warden, Brutus straightened in his seat. "You've seen him?"
I shook my head. "No. Just his signature on every rejection slip I've ever gotten. Honestly, I don't even know what he looks like. But I do know this — if I stay here, I'll rot. Which is why I'm meeting the boss. He's my ticket out, one way or another."
Brutus studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Then all we do now is wait for him to come to you."
"Exactly."
He hesitated, then leaned in, voice dropping. "Loona… one thing. If you're going to deal with him, you need to understand something. He's not… normal. Quiet frankly...the boss is a goddam lunatic. Brilliant, but twisted. He bends the world to fit whatever sick pleasure he's chasing that week. People who cross him don't just die — they disappear. In every way that matters."
I gave a little shrug. "Sounds exactly like the sort of man I'd expect to find running a place like this."
Just then, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see the bald man from before — the one who'd lashed out at the others in Section Twelve. He was smiling in that smug, faintly sadistic way that said he enjoyed every moment of whatever orders he'd just been given.
"The boss would like to see you," he said. His eyes flicked to Brutus, and there was something there — disdain, maybe. Or jealousy. Either way, it made me want to smile just to annoy him.
I stood, smoothing down my clothes in an exaggerated, theatrical flourish. "Well," I said, "let's not keep him waiting."
Brutus rose too, falling into step just behind me. The bald man's frown deepened, but he didn't say a word. We followed him out of the dining hall, the murmur of voices fading behind us as we walked toward whatever came next.
The bald man led us down a narrow service hall that smelled like wet stone and old sweat, his footsteps echoing in the hush like he was deliberately trying to make me feel small. We stopped at a dead end blocked by a haphazard stack of crates, and for a second I wondered if this was some cheap intimidation trick—until he shoved one aside, revealing a slit of darkness.
"After you," he said, voice flat but eyes lingering a fraction too long on my hips as I slipped through.
The passage beyond was cramped and damp, the air tight as a held breath. My bare shoulder brushed the wall more than once, leaving a faint trail of dust down my skin. I followed the faint glow ahead until the space abruptly opened, and that's when it hit me.
The smell.
Gods, the smell.
It was thick enough to chew on, hot and clinging, an unholy cocktail of sex, blood, and something darker—like spoiled wine left to curdle in a coffin. My stomach lurched, but I smoothed my expression into something approximating bored disinterest.
The room wasn't much to look at, but it was busy. A handful of battered tables scattered across the floor, each cluttered with cards, coins, and half-spilled drinks. Men leaned in close over their games, snarling in laughter, and beside almost every chair was a slave—most of them women—being pawed at, bargained over, or simply used in full view. The kind of place where shame wasn't just absent; it had been hunted down and skinned for sport.
My gaze snagged on him immediately.
The man in the grey cloak. The one I'd noticed earlier, now lounging at the far end of the room on a chair that looked like it had survived a bar brawl or twelve. Even from here I could see pale strips of bandage winding up his arm, disappearing beneath his sleeve.
We made eye contact, and something unspoken passed between us—part appraisal, part promise.
The bald man escorted me closer, stopping just shy of the boss. The grey-cloaked man's voice was low, rich, and gruff, carrying that effortless authority you only got from surviving things that should've killed you.
"You've caused me quite a bit of trouble, pretty thing," he said. "Most of Section Twelve's wages were supposed to find their way into my coffers to fund our next shipments. My men tell me you've… interfered."
I smiled sweetly, tilting my head so my hair slid over my shoulder in a calculated little spill. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
Then the hood came down, and I finally got a proper look at the man's face. His long grey hair was a touch tangled, a scar running down his lip tugged it into a permanent half-sneer. What really caught my attention was his pale blue eye, made of glass, which caught the light like it was staring through me instead of at me. He was imperfect, weathered… and somehow devastatingly handsome, like a blade with a nick in the edge—still lethal, maybe more so.
"I'll give you this," he said, studying me as if weighing what I was worth in coin or in trouble. "Not everyone walks into my den with a smile like that. So tell me… why?"
"Because," I said, leaning one hip against the nearest table, "I wanted your attention. And now I have it." I gave him a sly smile, the kind that said I wasn't here just to stir the pot—I was here to take a seat at the damn table. "But more than that, I want in. Your gang. Your empire. Whatever you call it. I'm tired of scraping crumbs and working the bottom rungs. I want a slice of the power, the money, the respect… and maybe a little fun on the side. I've got strengths you can't buy, if you're willing to take a chance."
He let out a short, surprised laugh, the sound like gravel skipping over stone. "You're a bold little brat, aren't you? Tell me, what could you possibly have to offer me besides looking pretty?"
I tapped a finger to my lips, pretending to think. "How about I show you?" That earned a quirked brow. "I challenge you," I said, "to an arm wrestle."
The room stilled, a few heads turning. The boss stared at me for a long moment, then laughed again—louder this time, his shoulders shaking as though I'd just told the funniest joke of the year.
"You want to arm wrestle me? That's your big play?"
"I figured it'd be less messy than stripping," I said with a shrug. "Unless you want me to."
A couple of the nearby gamblers choked on their drinks. The boss's smirk sharpened. "Fine. Let's see what you've got."
Not a few moments passed before a table was dragged into the center of the room, the bald man gesturing for us to take our seats. I placed my elbow on the wood, curling my fingers in invitation. The boss clasped my hand, his palm rough and warm, the faint scent of leather and smoke clinging to his skin.
"Ready? Go." the bald man said.
We started, and I let my wrist bend back almost immediately, my lips parting in a mock gasp. His grin spread slow, the smug kind of smile that said he thought he had me. But then I pushed back. Not all at once—just enough for him to feel it. I met his gaze over our hands, my own smile curling with slow, wicked promise.
"What's wrong?" I murmured. "Getting tired already?"
His eyes narrowed, but I didn't give him the chance to answer. With a lazy yawn, I slammed his hand to the table hard enough to rattle the cards stacked nearby.
A ripple of laughter went through the room. The boss blinked, genuinely caught off guard, before a low chuckle escaped him.
"Not bad, brat."
"So," I said, brushing invisible dust from my sleeve, "about me joining your little family…"
He leaned back in his chair, studying me anew. "Strength is good. But strength alone doesn't keep you alive in this world of business and secrets. Still… you've got potential. I'll give you that."
"And?" I prompted.
"And I'll let you in—on one condition. A gamble." His smile thinned, just enough to hint at teeth. "If you win, you're in. If you lose… my men and I will...take care of you."
I didn't need to ask what "take care of" meant. My imagination was plenty vivid, and none of the scenarios ended in tea and biscuits. Still, I kept my expression smooth and my smirk lazy.
"Fine," I said. "Name your game."
His glass eye caught the light again, and in it I saw a reflection of myself—small, smiling, and far too confident for my own good.