District 10 was a place where the air itself seemed to roll dice every time you breathed. Neon casino lights painted the streets in reds, golds, and greens, and the faint ding-ding-ding of slot machines bled into every alley.
Kamina and Shmuel walked side by side down the crowded avenue, weaving through gamblers clutching lucky charms, croupiers on smoke breaks, and the occasional fixers.
Shmuel flicked his eyes over at Kamina, the glow of a nearby neon sign reflecting off his glasses.
"The City's brimming with cheap Urban Myths," he said, his tone somewhere between weary and amused. "It's really hard to tell which are real and which are all made up."
They had already spent the better part of the day checking on "cases" that amounted to little more than hearsay. A roulette table supposedly cursed to always land on zero? Turned out the wheel was just misaligned. A back-alley pachinko machine that ate the souls of losers? It was a scam rigged by some drunk technician.
Kamina smirked, adjusting his sunglasses. "So what you're saying is, most of these so-called myths are just garbage."
Shmuel nodded. "Pretty much. And what's more, a lot of those Urban Myths turn out to be plain and boring when you get down to the root of it all."
They passed a shop entrance where the owner was having a customer draw their "Luck of the Day" from a glass bowl of numbered cards. The man pulled a low number, and the shopkeeper sighed, handing him only a single bill.
Shmuel glanced over but didn't slow down. "Thing is, if people, whether ordinary citizens or fixers, start talking about a myth enough, it can evolve. Cross that line, and it stops being just a story. Then it's an Urban Legend."
Kamina tilted his head. "And those are the ones that can actually bite you, right?"
"Exactly." Shmuel's voice turned flat. "Urban Legends are a different breed. They're harder to disprove, and more often than not, there's something at the core. Sometimes a phenomenon, sometimes worse."
The street around them pulsed with the rhythm of District 10's heartbeat with shouts from winners, curses from losers.
Shmuel adjusted the strap of his satchel as they weaved through the neon-lit streets of District 10, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the hum of casino machinery spilling into the sidewalks. "Our Urban Legend-class case was only appointed yesterday," he said, glancing at the terminal in his hand. "I managed to snatch the job through a mail from my computer."
Kamina gave him a puzzled look, hands in his coat pockets. "Whatever, kid. I don't even know what a computer is, much less a mail."
Shmuel sighed, rubbing his temples. "What else do you not know?"
Kamina barked a laugh, the kind that made it unclear whether he was mocking himself or the world around him. "Plenty. But I make up for it by being me."
"Right…" Shmuel muttered, scrolling through the details. "Anyway, the case: there's this new phenomenon–people eating gold coins to boost their luck for the casinos. We're talking slots, cards, dice–doesn't matter. Every one of these coin-swallowers always wins. And neither the Öufi Association's watchdog Offices nor J Corp's game monitors are doing a thing about it, since technically, it's not breaking any rules."
Kamina's eyebrows lifted. "So people are eating money… to win more money?"
"Exactly," Shmuel replied, tone dry. "Problem is, a whole variety of sore losers–probably folks who've been cleaned out by these winners–pooled their remaining cash together and slapped a bounty on whoever's behind the coins. The pool's big enough to keep the Great Kamina Office running for two months."
That seemed to get Kamina's attention. "Now that's a jackpot."
Shmuel's expression darkened. "There's one more detail. The Seven Association's recent findings show that every coin-swallowing winner eventually ends up dead. Not just dead–dead in ways so bizarre and disastrous they can only be described as… unlucky. We're talking collapsing scaffolds, exploding boilers, freak lightning strikes, fatal paper cuts turning septic–stuff that shouldn't statistically happen to one person, let alone dozens."
Kamina and Shmuel arrived at a casino tucked into the side streets of District 10—a squat, neon-drenched building with a flickering sign and the faint smell of stale liquor wafting from the doorway. It was the kind of place that should have been eaten alive years ago—either swallowed whole by one of the bigger syndicates or annexed by one of the City's Five Fingers. Yet somehow, it clung to existence, like a stubborn weed growing between cracks in the pavement.
Shmuel adjusted his glasses as he glanced up at the buzzing sign. "Small syndicate operation. Somehow still independent. Guess luck's a theme tonight."
Kamina smirked. "Or they've got sharper teeth than they look."
Shmuel gave him a side glance, then sighed. "You're not going in."
"Why not?" Kamina asked, already stepping toward the door.
"Because," Shmuel said firmly, stepping in his way, "I actually want to investigate without someone starting a ruckus."
Kamina spread his hands innocently. "Me? Start a ruckus? Perish the thought."
Shmuel didn't even dignify that with a reply. "I've got the intel I need to question people in there. You–" he jabbed a finger toward the sidewalk "–stay out here. Watch the street. Try not to pick fights with anyone unless they swing first. Or second. Or–just… don't."
Kamina leaned against the casino's outer wall, grinning like a man who'd already decided to do the exact opposite of what he'd been told. "Fine. Play detective. I'll be the welcoming committee."
Shmuel shook his head, muttering something about "voluntary chaos," and disappeared into the warm, smoky light of the casino floor, leaving Kamina outside among the drifting cigarette ash and the hum of neon.
Kamina lasted all of three minutes outside the casino before his attention wandered. One moment, he was leaning against the wall, watching the ebb and flow of desperate gamblers and sharp-eyed bouncers. The next, he was halfway down the street, drawn by something more interesting than Shmuel's "stay put" order.
Inside the casino, Shmuel was busy observing a portly man at a roulette table–a man who kept rubbing his belly like a talisman and, somehow, kept winning hand after hand. Shmuel narrowed his eyes, mentally filing away the pattern, unaware that his partner had already vanished.
Kamina's interest had been snagged by another odd sight–a wiry man in a cheap jacket, palming a gleaming gold coin… and then tilting his head back and swallowing it whole. No chewing, no sleight of hand. Just gone. The man didn't look around to see if anyone had noticed, but Kamina had.
"Now that's new," Kamina muttered. And just like that, he fell into step behind the stranger.
The man's destination was stranger still–a sprawling car dealer's lot, though calling it that was generous. It was less "dealership" and more of a "junkyard". Rusted chassis were stacked like teetering towers, some missing doors, others stripped to their frames. The air reeked of oil and stale cigarette smoke.
At the center of it all, in a low building whose walls were yellowed by years of nicotine stains, men lounged around a battered card table. Their clothing was elaborate in an eastern way–silken tunics with frog buttons, long embroidered sleeves, sashes at the waist. The cut and pattern of the fabric evoked something foreign and ancient, but the way they wore it–casually, with the air of men who owned the street outside–was pure syndicate.
The man who had swallowed the gold coin slid into a seat at the table. The dealers ,two older men with slicked-back hair and a younger one with a scarred cheek, barely glanced up as the game began. Cards flicked across the table, coins clinked, and, against all odds, the newcomer started winning. Hand after hand, the pile in front of him grew.
Kamina leaned against a wall, watching. The way the dealers' eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the tightness in their smiles–it was the look of men who didn't plan to let this streak go on much longer.
No fixers in sight. No Öufi Association reps. No J Corp handlers. Which meant when the inevitable happened, no one would write a report.
Kamina grinned. "Guess that makes me the law tonight."
He stepped forward, planting himself just behind the coin-swallowing man. The dealers looked up, startled by the sudden intrusion of a tall, slim stranger with sunglasses and an attitude like he belonged there.
"I'll be overseeing this game," Kamina announced casually, like he was telling them the weather.
The man in front of him blinked up in confusion. The dealers exchanged glances. No one at the table had been expecting an uninvited fixer.
And Kamina, enjoying every second of their surprise, simply crossed his arms and waited for someone to object.
The ring of steel against concrete, the snap of cards on the table, and the low growl of men losing patience–it all spiraled into chaos the moment the man's latest hand hit the felt.
The dealers' faces twitched with irritation, their polite smiles thinning. The man with the gold coin in his gut grinned like a fool, scooping up another pile of Ahn into his already bulging pockets. Kamina leaned lazily on his nodachi, watching the tension climb.
That was when the ring closed. The dealer's men, dressed in flowing, embroidered jackets with wide sleeves and golden frog fastenings, moved in. The air shifted–no more pretending.
A whisper of movement behind him–Kamina didn't even look. A machete swung for the back of his head, slicing nothing but air. His fist was already slamming into the attacker's jaw with enough force to send teeth clattering onto the floor like loose dice. The man stumbled back, eyes glassy, blood trailing from his lips.
One of the dealers, his face blotched red with anger, barked, "Call over the martial artists. Now!"
Kamina's mouth split into a shark's grin. "Now this," he said, rolling his shoulders, "is getting interesting."
The gold coin man, realizing the room's temperature had gone from warm to inferno, didn't need a second hint. He shoved Ahn into every available pocket and bolted, nearly tripping over his own greed. Kamina followed, not out of kindness, but because fighting the entire room wasn't worth missing the punchline.
The first martial artist appeared in the doorway, fists wrapped in cloth, eyes like drawn blades. Too slow. Kamina's Nodachi carved through flesh and fabric, dropping the man with a wet sound.
They ran. The shouts behind them were sharp with fury, the footsteps multiplying. Kamina slashed down another who got too close, the heavy blade biting through the ornate jacket as if it were paper. By the time they reached the street, the narrow alleyways had swallowed most of the pursuit.
They ducked into the shadowed crook of a collapsed awning, the stink of rust and rain pooling around them. The man was panting, clutching his winnings like a drowning man clutches driftwood. Kamina rested the nodachi against his shoulder, breathing steady.
"Hey," Kamina said, eyes narrowing in amusement, "you know anything about that gold coin you swallowed?"
The man leaned against the wall, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead. His breath hitched as he laughed between gasps.
"Some… some total stranger," he said, pulling a crumpled cigarette from his coat. His hands shook too much to light it. "Lab coat. Didn't even catch his name. Said if I swallowed this coin–" he patted his stomach with a grin that felt more like a grimace.
"I'd get a hundred times my luck. Easy money."
Kamina raised a brow. "And you just went for it?"
The man shrugged. "Told me he'd take half my winnings. Seemed fair for what I've been raking in." He laughed again, a nervous, ragged sound. "You saw what happened back there. Works like a dream."
The man was about to say something else when his eyes suddenly rolled back. His body stiffened like a marionette with its strings yanked taut. The sound came next–not a scream, not a groan, but a clicking from deep inside his chest, like coins rattling in a metal box.
Then the impossible happened. His throat bulged unnaturally, as though something was forcing its way upward. His mouth opened wide–not in pain, but in a frozen, rictus grin–and a stream of small, gold-plated gears poured out, clinking and spinning as they hit the ground.
His eyes turned glassy, pupils replaced by tiny gold discs. He toppled sideways, dead before he hit the wet pavement. The last of the gears rolled into the gutter, the sound fading into the hiss of distant rain.
Kamina looked down at the corpse, then at the scattered gears, and exhaled slowly. "Huh," he muttered. "Guess that's one way to cash out."
Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed and Kamina heard that–too far to be coincidence.
Kamina followed the faint echo of the sound, boots tapping against cracked pavement, only to find there was no door—just another empty stretch of wall.
A voice drifted from behind him.
"It surprises me we meet again… here, of all places."
Kamina turned his head. Alexy stood there.
"Haven't seen you since that white circle distortion case," Kamina said with a lopsided grin. "I wonder what you did with that distortion."
"Nothing of grandeur. I merely had my men watch it… study its nature. The thing was more curious than dangerous."
"You seem to hold a high position in… whatever it is you're part of," Kamina replied. "Why not just send your men from the start?"
Alexy shrugged lightly.
"To unleash them too soon would be to invite chaos. A shepherd does not drive the flock into a storm."
"What're you here for?" Kamina asked.
"I've a sense," Alexy said, his voice almost savoring the words, "that the Ring has brought forth their singularity here. And I suspect the case you chase may be… intertwined with them."
Kamina raised a brow. "The Ring, huh? Dunno what that is, but sounds like a good time. I'll take any challenge, any day."
Alexy turned, already walking away, his parting words tossed over his shoulder:
"They're becoming an irritation to my affairs. Expect me to call your office… so that you may resolve it."
"Sounds good," Kamina called after him, smirking.
With that, Kamina pivoted back toward the casino–the same one he'd left Shmuel to investigate on his own.
Shmuel emerged from the casino's side entrance, adjusting his coat. His eyes scanned the street until they locked onto Kamina, still leaning casually against a lamppost as if the incident earlier had been a minor hiccup in an otherwise dull day.
"I've got a lead," Shmuel said, voice low but charged with urgency. "Found the place—the lab. Belongs to the one handing out those gold coins. We'll need to move now if we want to catch him before he packs up."
Shmuel lifted his gloved hand, letting a small glint of yellow flash between his fingers. A gold coin, the edges dented, still faintly warm from wherever it had been kept. "This one's fresh. Our guy in there had it when I started questioning him. Said he got it straight from the source. But before I could dig deeper…" He gave a tight, displeased breath. "…people ganged up on him. Beat him to death right there on the carpet. Half the pit was in on it."
Kamina's grin was half-wolf, half-shark. "So, same story–wrong place, wrong time, and all the fun stuff happens without me."
"Fun, huh?" Shmuel said, already stepping toward the street. "Then you'll love what's next. This lab isn't far. If the stranger in the lab coat is still there, we might finally know why these coins are showing up–and why people are so eager to kill for them."
Kamina and Shmuel reached the address just as the rain began to bead against the slick concrete. The lab itself squatted between two condemned tenements, its entrance cordoned off by a thin ribbon of yellow tape fluttering in the damp wind. Dark green jackets trimmed with gold, Seven Association uniforms, moved in and out of the doorway quietly.
A young fixer with a neatly pressed vest stepped forward, clipboard tucked under one arm. His eyes flicked between them. "You two also here for the gold coins case?"
Before Shmuel could answer, a deeper voice cut through the drizzle. "Let them in."
The speaker stepped out from behind the fixer–a tall man with a sharp frame, his dark green jacket draped like a second skin. The gold accents caught the dim light as if reluctant to let it go. His yellow tie was knotted loose, but his gaze was precise, heavy. "Sam Spade," he introduced himself, Grade 4. "This isn't officially under Association investigation yet, so other offices can poke around. Just don't get in the way."
Inside, the lab looked like it had been turned upside down by a hurricane. Cabinets hung open, drawers gutted, glass and paper strewn like the aftermath of an autopsy. At the far end of the main floor stood a squat, iron-mouthed furnace, its doors still radiating a faint warmth.
"That," Sam said, gesturing toward it, "is a concept incinerator. They burned every invention this place ever produced. Erased them from existence. No blueprints, no prototypes–hell, the memory of them is gone. If you'd known what any of them were before, you wouldn't now."
Kamina gave a low whistle. "Guess that's one way to clean house."
"Problem is," Sam went on, "the only thing that survived is the golden coin. And somehow, every scrap of research tied to it is missing."
Kamina took the coin from Shmuel's hand without asking, tossing it lightly before holding it out to Sam. "Then maybe you want to have a look."
Sam turned it over between his fingers, brow tightening just a fraction. "We've already contacted a J Corp researcher. They're interested. Which means they won't disclose a damn thing to the rest of us. Might even copyright the pattern if it's close enough to their singularity."
Shmuel tilted his head. "Wishpower tech?"
Sam gave a curt nod. "Close to it. Not quite a singularity, but enough to keep it in their vault. And if that's the case… we may never see the full picture."
Kamina smirked. "Always nice when the Wings get involved–makes everything simpler."
"Simple isn't the word I'd use," Sam replied.
Shmuel's eyes swept the room again, sharper now. Among the chaos, there was a strange absence of… footprints, of tools, of evidence that more than one person had ever worked here. "This whole place," he muttered, half to himself, "was run by just one person."
Sam's gaze flicked toward him.
Kamina shifted the golden coin lightly between his fingers, then looked Sam squarely in the eyes. "I've got some information. The person who made this invention has ties to the Ring. And anyone who makes a deal with this researcher? They have to give back fifty percent of their winnings. Half the take goes right to the source."
Sam nodded slowly, folding his arms. "We already had intel about the fifty percent cut. It's a known racket–some sort of 'tribute' the lucky gamblers have to pay. But the Ring? That's trickier."
He paused, eyes narrowing. "We don't doubt the connection, but the info's thin. Nothing concrete yet."
Kamina frowned, waiting for him to elaborate.
Sam continued, "If your theory is right, then it stands to reason the researcher used the money they earned from this deal to buy a piece from a Maestro of the Ring, and then vanished. That's the most plausible outcome."
He gave a small, dry chuckle. "Not just plausible–probable."
Shmuel perked up. "A piece from a Maestro?"
Sam gave a brief nod. "The Ring doesn't just traffic in luck and influence—they manage art galleries too. These aren't your typical galleries. They showcase works from their Maestros—master artists within the Ring's ranks. And they hold auctions for these pieces."
Kamina raised an eyebrow. "So buying a piece gets you in?"
Sam's lips curled in a slight smile. "Exactly. Owning a Maestro's piece grants access to the Ring's 'Corridors'—their personal Singularity. A space where they can meet, operate, and move unseen from almost anywhere in the City."
His voice dropped. "The Corridors are a closely guarded secret. Only a handful of Seven Association Fixers of our section who've worked on Ring cases know about them. It's not something the City's public has the faintest clue about."
Shmuel tapped away on his notebook quietly, eyes sharp as he pieced together what they knew and what remained hidden. He'd been trading information back and forth with the other fixers at South Section 6, exchanging scraps and leads, trying to paint a clearer picture of the Ring's involvement.
"Every new piece of intel," Shmuel muttered, "brings us closer to figuring out just how deep this goes."
Kamina cracked his knuckles, readying himself for whatever came next. "Then let's not waste time."