The factory was a cage of metal and smoke. Every day, Lucien Graves walked into the building at dawn and did not leave until dusk, his hands blackened by soot, his lungs coated with the grime of dust. The air was always thick—like breathing through a veil of ash—and the foreman's whip-like voice cracked over the din of clanging machines.
Men talked in whispers when they thought he couldn't hear.
"The boss is mad… greedy bastard doesn't even pay right…"
"Last month, three men worked extra shifts. Didn't see a single coin for it."
"Always looking for someone new to use up, spit out."
Lucien kept silent, working with steady, mechanical movements. In his original world, people had kept their distance too. He had always carried an air that unsettled others, and it seemed no different here. They glanced at him sometimes—curious, cautious—but always pulled back. He was a wall to them, impenetrable, and he preferred it that way.
When the week ended, the men lined up for wages. Lucien stood near the back, expression cold. He watched as each man received his meager pay—enough to buy bread, maybe a roof for another week. Relief showed on their tired faces.
When his turn came, the boss's face twisted. His lips curled in disdain.
"Not for you," the man said flatly, shoving the coin pouch aside.
Lucien's voice was calm. "…Why?"
"You've barely been here a week. Men like you—unproven. You'll get your pay when I say you've earned it."
A pathetic excuse. But Lucien didn't argue. He turned to leave.
"Unless…" The boss leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing, voice low. "You do something for me."
Lucien paused.
The other workers shifted uncomfortably. One of them—an older man with weary eyes—subtly shook his head, trying to warn him. But Lucien ignored it.
"What is it?"
The boss's smile widened as he slid a cloth-wrapped package across the desk. Small, but heavy. Sealed with wax. He scribbled an address on a slip of paper and pushed it forward.
"Deliver this. Say exactly what I told you. Nothing more. Understand?"
Lucien studied the package for a moment, then took it. The coins he was owed no longer mattered—it was the principle.
---
The address led him deeper into Riverside Quarters, past sagging buildings where laundry hung limp on ropes, past children barefoot in the mud. The streets grew narrower, the air thicker with smoke and damp.
Finally, he reached it. A building squeezed between a pawnshop and a laundress's shanty. Its faded sign read: Red Lantern Bar.
Inside, the stench of old liquor and cheap tobacco clung to the walls. The wood floor was scarred, sticky in places. Behind the counter, a bartender polished a glass with deliberate slowness, eyes lifting when Lucien entered.
Lucien placed the package on the counter and recited the phrase exactly as the boss had instructed.
The bartender's expression sharpened, though his movements stayed calm. He nodded once, then beckoned. "This way."
He led Lucien to a plain stretch of wall. At first glance, it was nothing but cracked paneling. But when the bartender pressed his palm against it, there was a faint click, and part of the wall slid back to reveal a hidden elevator.
The man shoved Lucien toward it. "Inside."
Lucien stepped in without hesitation. The elevator was clean, steel walls reflecting his faint outline. Strange—there was only one button. No floors, no choices.
The bartender leaned in before pressing it. "Don't wander. Don't ask questions. Deliver it, then leave."
The doors closed. The elevator descended.
Lucien stared at his reflection in the steel. His grip on the package remained steady. Only one way down. Whoever's waiting already knows I'm coming.
The air grew heavier as the elevator slowed. Finally, it stopped. The doors slid open.
---
The world beneath Gravemont was alive.
It was a club—hidden, extravagant, and humming with energy. Music throbbed through the air, mingling with smoke and perfume. Golden chandeliers dangled above velvet lounges, throwing fractured light across the crowd. Men in crisp suits leaned close over drinks, women in silk gowns laughed with jeweled throats.
It wasn't poverty down here. It was power, concealed in shadow.
Lucien stepped forward, his face blank. He moved with measured calm, blending into the crowd while his eyes flicked, sharp and cold. He felt it immediately—the gazes. Heavy, assessing. People were watching.
So. This is the rot beneath the Empire's skin.
He weaved past the dancers, the package tucked at his side.
Then he collided with a wall of muscle.
The man towered over him, shoulders broad as an ox, a jagged scar running down his throat. His eyes, dark and narrow, scanned Lucien with deliberate slowness.
Lucien's grip tightened on the package, but his face remained unreadable.
The man's hand clamped down on his shoulder like iron.
"You," he growled, voice like gravel. "Come."
Lucien didn't resist.
The bulky man guided him away from the noise and light, down a corridor lined with velvet curtains and faint golden lamps. The air grew quieter, heavier. The laughter and music of the club seemed distant now, as though he'd stepped into another world entirely.
Finally, they stopped before a tall oak door. The man knocked twice, each rap echoing like a drumbeat. Then he pushed it open.
"Inside."
Lucien stepped through.
---
The room was colder. A study of sorts, lavishly furnished—dark mahogany shelves lined with books, a table polished to a gleam, velvet chairs arranged with deliberate care. Incense burned faintly, masking the scent of smoke from the club outside.
It was quieter here. But no less dangerous.
Lucien's eyes swept the room once, then settled forward. He could feel it: the presence of someone waiting.
This isn't just a delivery. It's a test.