The moment I stepped outside the school gate, the noise swallowed me whole.
Cars crawled past in uneven lines, vendors shouted over one another, and somewhere down the street a radio blared an off-key pop song. I stood there for a second longer than necessary, my bag slung over one shoulder, my thoughts still tangled in the classroom I'd left behind. Cerberus was quiet now, but his presence lingered, like a weight pressed against the back of my skull.
I noticed the taxi almost by accident.
It was parked a little away from the curb, engine idling, the driver leaning forward with his elbows on the steering wheel as he ate from a plastic container. Without really thinking it through, my feet carried me toward it.
I knocked lightly on the window.
The driver looked up, surprised, then rolled it down halfway. He was middle-aged, with tired eyes and a faint crease between his brows that suggested he frowned more often than he smiled.
"You waiting for someone?" I asked.
He glanced around, then shook his head. "Nah. Just having my lunch break." His eyes flicked to my uniform. "You heading somewhere, kid?"
"Yeah."
He studied me for a second, then shrugged. "Hop on, then."
I opened the back door and slid inside, the vinyl seat warm from the sun. I pulled the card from my pocket, held it out between the seats, and leaned forward.
"Thanks, mister. I need to go to this address."
He took the card, squinting at it before nodding. "No problem."
The engine hummed as he pulled away from the curb. Buildings slid past the window, familiar streets giving way to narrower roads. For a while, neither of us spoke. The silence wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't hostile either—just the kind that stretches when two strangers share a confined space.
I caught his eyes in the rearview mirror multiple times.
He was looking at me again. "Is there a problem, mister?" I asked.
He cleared his throat. "Oh—no. Nothing like that." He hesitated, then chuckled softly. "Just wondering why you're not in class at this hour."
"I had something urgent to take care of," I said. "Asked my teacher for a day off."
"Ah." He nodded, relieved. "Thought you might be skipping school. A lot of kids do that." He paused, then glanced at the card again. "Mind if I ask what you're business in that place?"
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
He tapped the steering wheel with one finger. "That address you gave me—it's in a slum area. People say it's dangerous."
My stomach tightened. My father wouldn't send me somewhere unsafe. He wouldn't.
"Is crime rampant there?" I asked.
"No," he said slowly. "Not exactly. But there are gangs. They clash almost every day. Authorities tried to clean it up a few times, but…" He shook his head. "They gave up."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Rumor is, one gang got backing from the police and ended up ruling a big chunk of the place."
I stared out the window, watching the streets grow rougher, the buildings more crowded, paint peeling, wires dangling like veins.
"Is the address I gave you part of their territory?" I asked.
"No," he said. "That one belongs to a smaller group."
I didn't know whether that was supposed to make me feel better.
He glanced at me again, softer this time. "Just… take care, kid. That slum isn't a place you wander around in."
"I will," I said.
The rest of the ride passed in silence. Cerberus stirred faintly, amused, as if danger were nothing more than background noise.
About thirty minutes later, the taxi slowed and came to a stop.
"This is as close as I can get," the driver said.
It was reasonable, the driver wanted to avoid dangerous places like this.
I paid the fare, thanked him, and stepped out. The heat hit me immediately, thick and heavy. I walk for 5 minutes, checking each house numbers in the ways.
Soon, I saw the house number that I was trying to find.
I turned to look at the place in front of me—and frowned.
A three-story villa stood behind tall concrete walls topped with barbed wire, looming over the surrounding shanties like it didn't belong. The houses around it were patched together with scrap metal and cracked wood, their roofs sagging, paint long faded. And in the middle of it all sat this mansion, clean lines, tinted windows, guarded like a fortress.
I muttered under my breath, "Who the hell builds a mansion in the middle of a slum?"
I walked up to the steel gate and pressed the doorbell.
After a moment, a small rectangular slot slid open with a metallic scrape. A pair of sharp eyes appeared behind it.
"What's your business here?" a man asked.
"My father," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Wynne Xevoz. He asked me to come here."
The eyes narrowed. "Wait."
The slot slammed shut.
I stood there, the silence pressing in on me. I couldn't help wondering how my father even knew people like this—and whether that was something I should have asked him sooner.
The slot opened again.
"My boss doesn't know your father," the man said flatly. "You should get the hell out of here, kid."
I pulled out the card again and held it up toward the opening. "Isn't this the address?"
He snatched a look, then clicked his tongue. "That damn Tristan. He keeps people confused." He sighed, irritated. "It's technically the address, but not this place."
My heart skipped. "Then where?"
"Back of the compound," he said. "Left side of the wall. There's an alley. First house after this is where you're supposed to go."
I hesitated. "Your left or my left?"
He scowled. "My left, Dumbass."
"Thank you, mister."
"Just get the hell out of here."
I stepped away from the gate, the man's eyes still burning into my back, and headed toward the alley—wondering what exactly my father had sent me into this time.
The alley narrowed as I walked, the noise of the street fading behind me. Only two people could pass side by side here, and even that would be uncomfortable. The villa's wall stretched on and on, swallowing nearly the entire block, its shadow pressing against the cramped path. My footsteps echoed faintly between concrete and rusted tin, every sound louder than it should have been.
At the far end, the alley opened just enough for a building to stand apart from the rest.
It wasn't a mansion like the one behind the wall, but it wasn't a shack either. Two stories tall, straight-backed and sturdy. The paint was sun-faded, almost gray, yet the windows were clean, the door solid. It felt… deliberate. Like it was trying to exist between two worlds—the excess of the rich and the neglect of the slum—without belonging to either.
I stopped in front of it and exhaled slowly before pressing the doorbell.
Nothing happened at first. Then, from inside, a muffled voice called out, "Wait a sec—don't touch anything!"
There was a clatter, followed by a muttered curse, then hurried footsteps.
The door creaked open.
A middle-aged man stood there, skinny but not frail, his posture slightly hunched as if years of leaning over worktables had permanently bent his spine. Round glasses sat low on his nose, one lens smudged, the other cracked at the corner. He wore a red lab coat over a white polo, a tie beneath it knotted crookedly and tucked halfway into his shirt, and oversized blue pants that pooled slightly around his ankles.
He blinked at me once. Twice.
Then his face lit up.
"Oh! Wynne's son—Nick, right?"
"Yes," I said, caught off guard by how quickly his mood flipped. "My father sent me."
"Right, right, of course he did." He snapped his fingers, then frowned at them as if disappointed they hadn't made a sound. "I knew you'd come today. Or tomorrow. Or—wait—was it today? No, no, today. I forgot he just called me earlier." He nodded to himself, satisfied.
He leaned closer, squinting at my face. A little too close.
"You look… taller than I remember," he muttered. "Or maybe I'm just shorter than I thought. Hm."
"I—" I started.
He straightened abruptly, nearly headbutting me, then laughed as if that had been intentional. "Sorry, sorry. Bad habit. People say I don't respect personal space. I say space is overrated."
He clapped his hands together softly, the sound sharp in the quiet alley. "Come in, come in. I've been waiting. Don't mind the mess—or do, actually. It's a very intentional mess."
He stepped aside and waved me in with exaggerated enthusiasm, almost tripping over his own foot in the process. "I'm Tristan, by the way. And before you ask—no, I'm not dangerous. Not to you, at least."
That last part came out cheerfully, as if he were talking about the weather.
I hesitated, then crossed the threshold. The door shut behind me with a solid click.