The city of Potter Field was a vertical wound carved into the earth, divided into three layers that had nothing in common except the misery they shared: the High City above utopia as it s named , wealthy and protected by the so-called Protectors; the Middle Layer, a shifting world of merchants, informants, smugglers and whisper networks; and the Lower Depths, where even the air felt heavier and the shadows moved like they had plans of their own. In these depths, three gangs ruled the world beneath the surface. The Goblins of the Forest, despite their ironic name, weren't creatures of nature; they were the brutal rulers of human trafficking circuits and illegal gambling networks, unpredictable but strangely not needlessly cruel as long as no one interfered with their trade. Their greatest advantage was their strong access to the Protectors of the High City—an alliance built on favors, corruption, and ancient debts—but this benefit came with a fatal flaw: they had horrible relationships with the other two gangs. Joining the Goblins meant severing ties with the Old Flowers and the Red Peacocks forever. Anyone who entered their ranks instantly became isolated from the rest of the underworld, trapped in the Goblins' world of brutality and political games. Then came the Old Flowers, the masters of the Middle Layer. They were neutral, diplomatic, and frighteningly clever, weaving their influence between the top and bottom with the calm grace of merchants who had survived too many wars. They controlled information, acted as intermediaries between enemies, and were the only faction that could retrieve a name, a person, or a secret that others considered lost forever. But joining them required silence, discipline, and a willingness to disappear. They did not let people walk away easily; membership came with invisible chains, and anyone who wanted to leave had to accomplish a nearly impossible mission, sacrifice something dear, or pay a price so high it left most members resigned to stay. And then there were the Red Peacocks, the proud rulers of the deepest layer, a gang bound by loyalty so strong it resembled a blood oath. They operated without identity cards, without official names, without any traceable existence, which made them ghosts in the eyes of the city. They watched over their own fiercely, offering protection and consistent wealth, creating a family where betrayal was unthinkable. But they were watched. The Protectors of the High City monitored the Red Peacocks constantly, suspicious and ready to strike, which meant anyone who joined them lived under endless surveillance. Privacy didn't exist, and once someone entered the Peacocks' nest, their life belonged not only to the gang, but also to the eyes that hunted them from above.
Standing between these three worlds was Lobo, a man who had walked through the layers of Potter Field long enough to understand exactly how they crushed people. He had wandered through the silent tunnels of the Lower Depths, seen the Middle Layer's frantic negotiations, and felt the High City's cold, artificial light. He had been searching for someone—or something—for too long, and his search had pushed him toward the gangs' territories until he could no longer remain neutral. He studied each faction carefully. The Goblins offered access to the High City, but joining them would lock every other door. The Red Peacocks offered loyalty and protection, but their members lived with invisible chains, monitored like criminals even before committing crimes. And finally, the Old Flowers offered information, the very thing Lobo needed most, but joining them meant giving up freedom and accepting a life where secrets mattered more than breath. Still, he knew the truth: in a city of walls and silence, only the Old Flowers could lead him to what he sought.
So when the time came to choose, Lobo didn't hesitate. "I know what I'll join," he said. The words came out faster than he expected—almost too fast, like the decision had been growing inside him long before he admitted it out loud. The old man facing him, a recruiter whose was surprised by the fast made decision raised an eyebrow. "That's fast," he murmured half teasing, half impressed, as though he expected Lobo to take tiime or to think somuch more . But Lobo didn't waver. He nodded once, firm. "Yes," he said. "I've decided." And in that moment, the entire atmosphere seemed to shift, as if the world itself recognized the consequences of his choice. He had chosen the Old Flowers, the shadow brokers of the Middle Layer, the gang that could grant him information and answers but at the cost of personal freedom, anonymity, and perhaps even his own identity but who care as he heimself donnt know anything about himself . A hush filled the narrow passageway where they stood, the kind of silence that weighed on a man's shoulders, testing his resolve, asking whether the step he took was bravery or madness. But Lobo held the old man's gaze without blinking. He had walked through too much darkness to fear another shadow. In this city of layered corruption, where every gang demanded a sacrifice and every choice transformed a life, the Old Flowers were the only path that still offered hope. They were the bridge between worlds, the keepers of secrets, the silent gardeners of hidden truths—dangerous, manipulative, and indispensable. And Lobo, who had spent too long searching, was ready to pay the price. He knew that once he entered the Old Flowers, he would not walk out unchanged. He knew their work required silence, loyalty, and the ability to disappear. He knew they would ask of him a task that might scar him or break him or bind him forever. But he also knew this: they would lead him to answers. They would open the doors the Goblins blocked and the Peacocks hid. They would show him what no one else could. And for a man like Lobo, who carried questions heavier than fear, that was worth everything. So he stood his ground, unshaken, as the old man finally nodded in return—slowly, acknowledging the weight of the moment, acknowledging Lobo's courage, or perhaps his foolishness. The world of Potter Field did not forgive easy choices, and Lobo had just made one that would shape everything that came next. He stepped into the silence of the Old Flowers, into the deep heart of the Middle Layer, into the garden of secrets where once you entered, you could only bloom in the dark.