Music hit him first—deep, bone-shaking bass that rattled through the floor like the pulse of a buried monster. Neon Abyss wasn't a club, not really. It was a wound carved into the city's underbelly, a place where lawless men and broken souls came to drown themselves in flashing lights and violence.
As Suichi Kamane stepped inside, the rain-heavy air of Noxhaven was replaced by smoke and sweat. Strobing crimson lights slashed across the room, painting faces into demons and saints with every flash. Men shouted over the music, women danced in cages suspended from the ceiling, and in the center pit, two fighters bled freely while a screaming crowd threw money at them.
Suichi moved like a shadow through it all, coat brushing against bodies, cigarette smoke trailing from his lips. His eyes scanned—not for pleasure, not for escape—but for patterns. Every face, every gesture, every crack in the façade. Somewhere in this chaos was the voice that had called him, the one who knew too much.
He stopped near the pit, gaze lingering on the fighters. One man was already stumbling, his jaw broken, blood running down his chest. The other grinned, teeth missing, fists slick with crimson. The crowd roared, the loser dropped, and a fresh pile of bills rained down.
"First time here?" a woman's voice purred.
Suichi didn't turn. He caught her reflection in the mirror behind the bar—long hair, sharp cheekbones, cigarette between her lips. Her eyes weren't on him, but on the pit, like she was watching for something only she understood.
"Not here to drink," he said simply.
She smirked, exhaling smoke. "Nobody comes here just to drink. They come to forget. Or to bleed."
Suichi finally turned. Her gaze met his, sharp and assessing. She wasn't just another bystander. Informant, maybe. Or bait.
"Someone called me," he said flatly. "Said they'd be here."
The woman tilted her head. "And you just walked into the Abyss because a stranger whispered your name? Bold. Or stupid."
Before Suichi could respond, the crowd suddenly shifted. The pit emptied, the music cut, and a heavy spotlight crashed down onto the center. A new fighter walked in, tall, broad-shouldered, tattoos crawling up his neck like vines. The crowd chanted his name: "Kraven! Kraven! Kraven!"
The announcer's voice boomed: "New challenger tonight! Rules are simple—last man standing walks away!"
The woman beside Suichi flicked her cigarette. "That's your cue, detective."
The crowd's attention snapped toward him. Somehow, silently, he had been chosen. Suichi realized it wasn't random. Someone had arranged this.
Two men shoved him forward toward the pit. His coat flared, cigarette still between his lips as he dropped into the circle. The crowd howled.
Kraven sneered, cracking his knuckles. "You look fragile, old man. Easy money."
Suichi's eyes narrowed, his hand brushing his holster, then stopping. The club's rules were clear: no guns, no blades. Only fists. Fine.
The bell clanged.
Kraven lunged first, swinging a heavy fist. Suichi sidestepped, precise, letting the momentum carry the brute forward. A sharp elbow jab to the ribs, quick, surgical. Kraven grunted, spun, and came again, this time faster. His fist connected with Suichi's jaw, snapping his head sideways. The crowd erupted.
But Suichi didn't fall. He wiped blood from his lip, eyes cold, unreadable.
Kraven roared and charged, trying to crush him against the cage. Suichi dropped low, sweeping Kraven's legs out. The man crashed onto the floorboards, splintering wood. Before he could rise, Suichi's boot slammed into his chest, once, twice, cracking ribs.
The crowd screamed, half in delight, half in fury. Kraven's hand groped blindly for something—he grabbed a broken bottle from the floor. He swung.
Glass whistled through the air, but Suichi caught his wrist, twisted until bone snapped with a sickening crunch. The bottle shattered harmlessly. With his free hand, Suichi drove his fist into Kraven's throat. The man gagged, eyes bulging. One final strike to the temple dropped him cold.
The pit fell silent for a heartbeat. Then the crowd exploded—cheers, boos, money flying. Blood and sweat soaked into the boards. Suichi stood over Kraven's limp body, breathing steady, coat swaying around his legs. He didn't raise his hands in victory. He simply lit another cigarette, exhaled smoke into the chaos, and climbed out of the pit.
The woman was waiting at the bar, smirking. "You fight like you don't care if you live."
Suichi ignored her. "Where's the caller?"
She tilted her head. "Follow me."
---
They moved through a back corridor, away from the noise. The music dimmed until only the drip of leaking pipes remained. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, buzzing like dying flies. The woman stopped in front of a steel door, turned the handle, and stepped aside.
"Inside," she said.
Suichi entered. The room was bare—just concrete walls, a table, a single chair. On the table sat a folded piece of paper.
No one else.
He approached slowly, cigarette glowing in the dim light. The paper was rough, smudged. Unfolding it, he saw a single symbol—one of the same geometric carvings from the corpse's chest. Beneath it, a phrase scrawled in jagged ink:
"The Harvest does not end with one."
Suichi's jaw tightened. Another message. Another clue. But as he lowered the paper, he felt it—eyes watching him.
From the shadows of the room, a figure stepped forward. Masked, hooded, body lean but tense. In one hand, a knife glinted.
"Detective Kamane," the voice rasped—the same distorted tone from the call. "You shouldn't have come."
The knife slashed forward.
Suichi twisted, the blade slicing his coat but missing flesh. His own hand grabbed the man's wrist, slamming it against the table until the knife clattered. The masked figure kicked back, agile, pulling another blade from his boot.
The room erupted into chaos.
They clashed—steel flashing, bodies slamming against walls, fists cracking into ribs. The masked man was fast, trained, his strikes deliberate. But Suichi was colder, sharper. He blocked, parried, countered, each move calculated to break, not to wound.
Finally, with a brutal twist, Suichi disarmed him, slamming the man against the wall, arm locked behind his back. The mask cracked halfway, revealing only a pair of wide, terrified eyes.
"Who sent you?" Suichi growled.
The man choked on his own breath. "The… Harvest… is already here…"
And before Suichi could react, the man bit down hard on something hidden in his mouth. A faint hiss, then foam spilled from his lips. Poison. Within seconds, he convulsed and went limp.
Suichi dropped the body, his cigarette ash falling onto the concrete. He stared at the corpse, at the symbol on the paper, at the shadows closing in around the city.
The Harvest wasn't just a threat.
It had already begun.