Location: Westway Strip, Maatari
Time: 11:13 AM
Gor Delmin's office was a forgotten relic stapled to the underbelly of a freight stack in Westway Strip — rusted rivets, blinking signs half-scraped off, and a single guard posted like a bad afterthought.
A low beat of music bled through the cracked wall — something metallic, too slow to be human.
The guard sat half-slouched on a folding chair, visor lifted to his forehead, a smoldering bakky hanging from his lip. His skin was olive-bronze, eyes ringed red from static exposure.
"Delmin ain't seein' visitors today," he said, voice rough. "You got an appointment, ghost?"
Khazim didn't answer.
He kept walking — measured steps, eyes steady. The guard pushed off his chair, one hand resting on the grip of a low-grade shock pistol holstered at his thigh.
"Hey— I'm talkin'—"
Khazim's shadow hit him first.
The air grew cold in the tight corridor as the faint hum of Se'lo current rippled through the Hunterfly's hilt. A pale pulse slid across Khazim's chest where the chain hid beneath his jacket.
The Hunterfly, looked like a heavy butterfly knife reimagined by a Se'lo engineer — forged from matte-black alloy with faint glyph etchings running its spine. When closed, it fit his palm like a short hilt; when snapped open, the twin arms unfolded into a single curved blade whose edges hummed faintly with stored Se'lo current. A third motion extended its haft to full length, locking into a slender staff form lined with Ghostglint nodes.
It wasn't a relic. It was his own design — built in the weeks after the fight that stole his right eye and taught him what precision really meant.
"I'm not here to talk to you," Khazim said.
The guard took a pull and almost swallowed his lit bakky.
"You really wanna earn your hazard pay today?" Khazim said quietly.
The guard's hand froze on the pistol.
Khazim stopped just short of him — not touching, not glaring, only present. The kind of stillness that makes noise remember to die.
"Delmin's expecting me."
The guard pulled once, then twice. He exhaled smoke, stepped aside, and palmed the door control.
"Yeah," he muttered, voice cracked thin. "Course he is."
The hatch unlocked with a hiss. Behind it, Delmin's office lights flickered awake.
Inside, the air was thick with incense and artificial lemon oil. A holo-wall flickered behind the desk, looping bracket wins and fighter clips — trophies for investors who never showed.
Gor Delmin looked up mid-laugh. Late forties, caramel skin gleaming under soft light, beard carved sharp enough to mirror the smirk below it. His blazer shimmered with cheap crystal embroidery, each sparkle trying to pretend it belonged uptown.
"Khazim," he said, leaning back in a velvet-worn chair, boots on the desk. "My favorite phantom. I was just—"
Khazim flicked the Hunterfly once. The knife hissed open into its full staff form with a quiet snickk — blade tips meeting the dim light.
The holo-wall glitched and went black.
Delmin's smile dropped. "Alright. No need for the ghost act. You want your Musa?"
Khazim stood still.
Delmin sat up, trying charm again. "Look, I was gonna send it. Pool's been dry. You know how these brackets are — lean payouts, bad turnover—"
"You're talking," Khazim said.
Delmin froze.
Then reached under the desk.
Khazim moved first. The Hunterfly swept forward, blade-point now resting gently on Delmin's hand before it could reach whatever waited beneath the console.
Delmin's breath hitched.
"Okay! Okay," he muttered, retracting his arm. "I got something better than Musa."
He shuffled sideways, unlocked a drawer, and produced a thin black drive fractured at the edges, faintly glowing with corrupted pulse data.
"Shadow Bit," he explained quickly. "Encrypted dossier. Came off a vault-runner I owed. Could be dirty vids, could be insider trades — who knows. But it's real."
Khazim's expression didn't change. "Half in Musa."
Delmin blinked. "What if it's worth more than your take?"
"Then consider it interest," Khazim replied, eyes like slate. "And a tax for not shattering your jaw."
Delmin didn't argue. He passed over a compact pouch of Musa — thick, matte-paper notes threaded with glyph seals.
Khazim took both and turned for the door.
"Don't say I never pay debts," Delmin called, adjusting his collar. "I just… delay them occasionally."
Khazim didn't respond.
As he stepped out into the wind tunnel of the Strip, the Hunterfly folded back into knife form and vanished beneath his bomber jacket.
The black market in Westway Strip didn't hide underground — it was the ground. A living vein of vendor vaults, fencer corners, and signal-choked alleys built under the bridges of dead rail lines. Sparks from glyph-carts drifted like fireflies; pulse traders shouted over the hum of converters. Se'lo auras flared here and there, colors bleeding through the haze.
If you knew where to look, you didn't need passwords — just purpose.
Khazim walked like he had both.
The crowd parted around him without realizing why; instinct learned faster than memory. He passed under tangles of fiber wire, over crates of synth-fruit and bottles of Se'lo-laced incense, past a squad of rookies arguing about fake beast cards.
His destination waited behind a discarded sonar-tank shell: Fynn's Cache, a reinforced alcove lit by flickering neon strips and a hacked heat-lamp glow.
Fynn sat at the back — wiry, pale gold skin, hair buzzed close except for a streak of white that caught the lamp. Amber goggles reflected five screens at once. Silver ports studded his wrists; a scanner coil wrapped one eye like a metallic tattoo. He looked less like a man than a broadcast trying to stay human.
"Didn't expect to see your silhouette today," Fynn called, not turning. "Unless you've come to buy back one of your bad decisions."
Khazim held up the Shadow Bit.
Fynn turned and grinned. "Now that looks familiar."
He took the drive carefully and dropped it into a hovering data-dish. A violet pulse scanned it three times. Code streamed; fragments of corrupted footage blinked and died.
"Mm." Fynn tapped a command. "Definitely real. Definitely dirty. You wanna know what's inside?"
"No."
That earned a longer glance. Fynn's grin softened. "So just Musa, then."
Khazim nodded once.
Fynn worked the console. A band of fresh currency slid across the table, dusky green notes laced with black and stamped in gold glyph.
"Seven hundred Musa," he said. "Could've fetched more if I knew whose secrets I was fencing — but you came early."
Khazim accepted the band and didn't flinch.
"Careful," Fynn added. "Keep showing up like this, and people'll start thinking you're back in rotation."
"I'm not," Khazim said, already turning.
Fynn smirked. "Sure, you're not."