The slums of Krovograd's south were alive, but not with joy. The streets pulsed with a grim rhythm, life grinding by in a cacophony of shrill laughter, muffled curses, and the rattle of carts pulled by skeletal horses. The smell of rusting metal and burnt oil clung to every surface, seeping into the cracked cobblestones and the patchwork walls of leaning tenements. Rainwater pooled in the gutters, swirling with soot and ash, reflecting fractured glimpses of the city's towering smokestacks in its oily sheen. Here, the world didn't grow—it corroded.
The Kaizetsu's presence was everywhere, a shadow stretching over every alley and corner. Their sigil—a black oni mask—was scrawled across walls, doors, and the occasional corpse left in the open as a warning. Children darted between the alleys, their faces smeared with dirt and desperation, while mothers clutched their threadbare shawls tighter, eyes darting nervously at the sight of Kaizetsu enforcers swaggering by. No one lingered too long in the open. The slums weren't a place for idleness; idleness got you noticed, and being noticed could kill you.
Above the slums, the northern district loomed like a taunting god. Its pristine spires glinted in the sunlight, sharp and angular, as though they had been designed to cut through the clouds themselves. The northern oligarchs called them "symbols of progress." To the south, they were monuments to greed, each one built on the backs of the starving and the desperate. Between the two worlds, the border checkpoints stood like iron teeth, bristling with northern Silver Order soldiers, their rifles glinting as they patrolled with mechanical precision.
This was the world of the Kaizetsu—a fractured, bleeding city where rebellion had been boiled down to survival. What had once been an ideal, a cry for justice, had rotted into something unrecognisable. Revolution was no longer a dream; it was a gang war with too many bodies to bury.
Yawen crouched low on the rooftop, her crimson hair tied back and tucked under the hood of her coat. The coarse fabric clung to her damp skin as the wind cut through the slums, tugging at the loose threads of her sleeves. Below, a northern convoy rumbled through the narrow streets, flanked by soldiers in silver-gray uniforms. Their boots struck the cobblestones in perfect rhythm, their eyes scanning every shadow. They carried rifles slung across their backs, bayonets gleaming like fangs in the light.
From her perch, Yawen's gaze was sharp and calculating, tracing every movement with predatory precision. Her tattoos, black and intricate, peeked out from under her sleeves, curling like serpents along her wrists and up her neck. They were the marks of Jiéshén, the faith of her people, and each line told a story she never spoke aloud. She adjusted her grip on the rooftop's edge, fingers brushing against the damp stone.
The convoy's cargo wagons creaked and groaned under their weight—food, weapons, maybe even northern luxuries destined for the nobles in their towers. Yawen's lips curled in disdain. The north never missed an opportunity to remind the south of what they didn't have.
She shifted her weight, her boots silent against the rooftop. Her mind wandered, unbidden, to a memory she tried to bury. A door swinging open to an empty room. The silence that followed. The ache that had never left. She pushed the thought aside, hard. Dwelling on the past was useless. No one was coming back.
Yawen's eyes narrowed as the convoy passed below. She waited until the last wagon disappeared around a corner before she moved, descending the rooftop with practised ease. Her boots hit the ground silently, and she slipped into the shadows of the alley, her presence dissolving into the city's chaos like smoke into the air.
The Menagerie was a brothel in name, but it was more of a performance. It stood at the heart of the southern district, its garish exterior painted in fading reds and golds, a desperate attempt to mimic northern opulence. Strings of mismatched lanterns swayed above the entrance, their flickering lights casting strange, shifting patterns on the cracked pavement below. Inside, the heavy scent of incense and sweat mingled with the faint hum of an old phonograph playing scratchy music.
Yawen stepped through the doorway, her presence immediately drawing glances from the room's occupants. She moved like a blade cutting through silk—silent and deliberate, her tattoos marking her as someone not to be trifled with. The performers on stage faltered for a moment before resuming their routine, their smiles painted on as they danced under dim, flickering gaslights.
Akasha was waiting for her in a curtained alcove near the back. The woman's sharp features were framed by a cascade of dark hair, her eyes lined with kohl and her lips painted a deep, unsettling red. She lounged on a velvet settee, one leg draped lazily over the other, her fingers idly tracing the rim of a wine glass.
"You're late," Akasha said, her voice low and honeyed, but with a bite underneath.
"I'm here," Yawen replied flatly, sliding into the seat across from her. She kept her movements controlled, her posture rigid. Trusting Akasha was a luxury she couldn't afford.
Akasha smirked, tilting her head as she studied Yawen. "Still such a charmer, Lynx. It's a wonder you don't have suitors lined up outside your door."
Yawen's expression didn't waver. "The convoy passed through. Heavily armed, but sloppy."
"And you think you can take it?" Akasha arched a brow, swirling the wine in her glass.
"We don't need to take it. Just enough to remind them that the south isn't dead yet." Yawen leaned forward, her voice dropping. "What do you have for me?"
Akasha's smirk widened, but her eyes stayed cold, calculating. "You know, you could smile once in a while. Might make these conversations less... tense."
"Get to the point." Yawen's patience was razor-thin.
With a sigh that was more theatrical than genuine, Akasha leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The train leaves tomorrow night. Food, weapons, and steel parts for northern factories. The schedule's tight, but there's a window. A small one."
Yawen nodded, her mind already working through the logistics."What's your cut?"
"Information doesn't come free, Lynx." Akasha's smile turned sharp. "I'll expect payment. Don't make me come looking for you."8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0P0KM2H08B
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"You're indentured."
Yawen rose without another word, her coat billowing slightly as she turned to leave. The weight of Akasha's gaze followed her, but she didn't look back. The Menagerie was a place made by her gang, the Kaizetsu, for people who bartered in flesh and secrets, and Yawen trusted neither.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuk2PYy6LA9
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Kitty loved the junkyard. She loved its chaos, its unpredictability, the way it was both a graveyard and a treasure trove. The southern junkyard stretched for miles, a labyrinth of twisted metal, broken machinery, and discarded dreams. Steam hissed from rusting pipes while the occasional spark crackled through the air, the remnants of some long-forgotten machine still clinging to life.
She crouched on a pile of scrap, her fingers deftly twisting a bolt into place on her latest creation. It was a small contraption, no bigger than her palm, made of scavenged gears and wires. She wasn't entirely sure what it would do yet—maybe a lockpick, maybe a tiny grappling hook—but it didn't matter. The act of building was enough.
"Still playing with scraps, Kitty?" Ignacio's voice cut through the air, smooth and lazy, with just the right amount of mockery to make her stomach twist.
She looked up to see him leaning against a rusted beam, cigarette dangling from his lips. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a hint of the tattoo that marked him as Kaizetsu. He had the kind of face that made women swoon and men swing punches, and he wore his arrogance like a second skin.
"Maybe," Kitty said, flashing him a grin that didn't quite reach her eyes. "But at least I'm playing with something."
Ignacio chuckled, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Careful, sweetheart. You might build something dangerous one day."
Her grin faltered for half a second before she recovered. "Maybe I already have."
He pushed off the beam, swaggering closer. "You're cute when you're feisty, you know that?"
Kitty's fingers tightened around the wrench in her hand. "Andyou're insufferable when you're sober."
"Good thing I'm rarely sober, then." Ignacio smirked, brushing past her and heading deeper into the junkyard. Kitty watched him go, her chest tight with a mix of frustration and something she refused to name.
She turned back to her invention, her hands moving faster now, as if the act of building could silence the noise in her head. Someday, she thought. Someday, he'll see me.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5MFdX4tg07
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Corbin's muscles burned, sweat dripping down his face as he ducked under another swing. His sparring partner, a wiry boy with quick hands, came at him again, but Corbin sidestepped, delivering a swift jab to the ribs. The boy staggered back, gasping for air.
"Enough!" barked the overseer, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. The training yard fell silent, the other Sparks lowering their fists as they turned to watch.
Corbin offered his opponent a hand, pulling him to his feet."You're quick," he said, his voice warm despite the exhaustionin it. "Keep your stance tighter next time."
The boy nodded, rubbing his ribs. "Thanks, Corbin."
Corbin stepped back, rolling his shoulders as he prepared for the next round. The Kaizetsu training yard was a brutal place, but it was necessary. The Sparks were the gang's foot soldiers, the runts sent out to do the dirty work. If you couldn't hold your own here, you didn't last long in the streets.
As he waited for his next opponent, Corbin caught sight of Yawen across the yard, her crimson hair unmistakable even in the dim light. She was speaking with Retvenko, her face calm but her eyes sharp. Corbin's chest tightened. Yawen had that effect on him—she made him feel like he was both stronger and smaller at the same time.
He shook the thought away, focusing on the task at hand. There was no room for distractions here. Not in the Kaizetsu.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡC4uaur6usR
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The air inside Retvenko's headquarters was heavy, thick with the mingling scents of oil, sweat, and the faint, acrid bite of gunpowder. The building had once been a factory, perhaps churning out gears or steam valves for northern machines, but now it was a hollowed-out husk. The massive iron beams overhead groaned under the weight of time, and the walls were smeared with soot and rust. Flickering gas lamps cast uneven light, their glow barely reaching the high, vaulted ceiling. Shadows clung to the edges of the room, curling in the corners like waiting predators.
The Kaizetsu's mark was painted across the far wall in stark black. Beneath it, a long table stretched out, scratched and pitted like it had survived years of battles alongside its owners. Around it sat the group, each member etched with their own wear and tear, like the furniture around them. The sound of Yawen's boots echoed as she approached the table, her hair catching the dim light like a flicker of flame. She took her usual seat, not at the head, but near the shadows, where her presence felt sharp and contained.
Corbin was already there, leaning back in his chair with one leg draped over the other. His shirt was damp with sweat from the training yard, and a faint bruise bloomed on his cheekbone. Ignacio, leaning against the wall, was nursing a flask of something that smelled like fire and regret, his revolver tucked into the waist band of his trousers. Kitty sat cross-legged on the table itself, fiddling with some small mechanical contraption that clicked softly with each twist of her wrist.
The room fell silent when Retvenko entered.
He didn't announce himself. He didn't need to. His presence filled the room like a storm front, crackling with unspoken authority. Retvenko wasn't a tall man, but he seemed bigger than he was, a fact that had nothing to do with his broad shoulders or his scarred knuckles. His presence was built from the weight of his reputation, the stories whispered about him in the alleys and taverns of Krovograd's south. His beard was streaked with grey, his eyes sharp as broken glass, and his voice, when he finally spoke, was a low rumble that could grind stone.
"Tomorrow night," he said, his accent thick and guttural, the remnants of an old southern dialect that had all but disappeared. "We hit the northern train."
The map spread across the table was crude, hand-drawn on yellowing parchment and stitched together from bits of scavenged documents and hearsay. It showed the train line cutting through the southern district, its route a thin black vein threading through the heart of Krovograd. Retvenko's thick finger traced the line, stopping at a marked point near a collapsed factory.
"This is where we make our move," he said, glancing around the room. "The train will slow here-tracks are damaged, thanks to our friends, the Sparks. It's carrying food, weapons, and steel. We take everything we can carry, destroy the rest."
Yawen's eyes flicked over the map, her expression unreadable. "And the guards?" she asked, her voice low and even.
"Armed," Retvenko replied. "But sloppy. They don't expect us to hit this far south."
"They should by now," Ignacio muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. He took a swig from his flask and smirked. "Unless they're as stupid as they look."
Retvenko ignored him. His gaze swept the room, lingering on each of them in turn. "This isn't a game," he said. "This train is northern property. That means retaliation. You're all prepared for that, da?"
No one answered. They didn't need to. The weight of his words settled over them like ash, heavy and suffocating.
"This is what the Kaizetsu was built for," Retvenko continued, his voice hard. "To take back what's ours."
Kitty snorted softly, not looking up from her contraption. "Wasn't it built for justice? Or was that just the sales pitch?"
The room tensed. Retvenko's eyes narrowed, but he didn't respond immediately. Instead, he leaned forward, his hands braced on the table. The scars on his knuckles were stark against his skin, a patchwork of pale lines and jagged edges.
"You think this is justice?" he asked, his voice low but carrying. "Do you think the north cares about justice?"
Kitty didn't respond, but her fingers stilled, the clicking of her device stopping as if silenced by his words.
"Justice," Retvenko continued, "was the dream. Before the crackdowns. Before the arrests. Before the executions."
Yawen's jaw tightened, the faintest flicker of something—pain, anger, or both—crossing her face. She didn't say anything, but her grip on the edge of the table tightened, her knuckles whitening.
Retvenko straightened, his gaze sweeping the room again. "The north made sure there'd be no justice. They killed it in the streets, buried it in unmarked graves. What's left now is survival. You think the Kaizetsu became a gang because we wanted to? No. We became what they made us."
Corbin's voice broke through the silence, soft but steady. "What was it like? Before?"
Retvenko's gaze shifted to him, and for a moment, something softened in his expression. He sank into a chair at the head of the table, leaning back as if the weight of the past had finally caught up to him.
"Before the turn of the century," he said, "the Kaizetsu wasn't a gang. It was a movement. The south was suffering, but we still had hope. We believed in change. We believed in each other."
He paused, his eyes distant, as if seeing something none of them could. "We held rallies. Peaceful ones. We marched in the streets, demanded fair wages, better conditions. And for a time, it felt like we might actually be heard."
The room was silent, the weight of his words hanging heavy.
"Then came the crackdowns," Retvenko said, his voice hardening. "The north didn't want to hear us. They wanted to silence us. They sent their soldiers, their enforcers. They called us traitors, criminals. They arrested our leaders, executed them in public squares to make an example of them."
"They broke us," Retvenko said. "Or at least, they thought they did. But you can't kill an idea. You can only twist it."
Yawen spoke then, her voice quiet but sharp. "And that's when the Kaizetsu changed."
Retvenko nodded slowly. "We had no choice. The marches, the speeches—they weren't enough. The north only understands one language: force. So we adapted. We became what we needed to be to survive."
"And what is that?" Kitty asked, her tone lighter than before but still edged with something bitter. "A gang of thieves and murderers?"
Retvenko's gaze snapped to her, sharp as a knife. "A gang that feeds the south. A gang that arms the south. A gang that fights for the south, while the rest of you sit and wait for someone else to fix things."
Kitty flinched, but she didn't look away. The silence that followed was thick with tension, the air practically crackling with it.
Corbin broke the silence, his voice soft but firm. "We're not just a gang. We're more than that."
"And what are we?" Ignacio asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he leaned against the wall, twirling his flask between his fingers. "Freedom fighters? Heroes?"
"We're survivors," Yawen said, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. She looked at Ignacio, "And if you don't want to be here, you can leave."
Ignacio's smirk faltered, but only for a moment. He raised his flask in mock salute. "Relax, Lynx. I'm not going anywhere."
Yawen's gaze lingered on him for a moment before she turned back to the table. "The train is a start," she said. "The north thinks they can starve us out, bleed us dry. We'll show them they're wrong."
Retvenko rose from his chair, his presence once again commanding the room. "This isn't just about food or weapons," he said. "This is about sending a message. The north thinks they can crush us. Let them see what happens when they try."
His gaze swept the room one last time, landing on each of them in turn. "None of you have to be here," he said. "But if you are, you need to be ready. This train isn't just a target. It's a line in the sand. And if we don't take it, they'll take everything."
No one spoke, but the weight of his words settled over them like a shroud. The mission wasn't just about survival. It was about defiance. It was about proving that the south wasn't dead yet, that the Kaizetsu still had teeth.
Yawen rose from her seat, her movements deliberate, her gaze steady. "We'll be ready," she said.
And with that, the meeting was over. The group dispersed, each member carrying the weight of the mission in their own way. The flickering gaslights cast long shadows as they left the room, their footsteps echoing like the distant rumble of a train.
In the silence that followed, Retvenko remained at the table, his hands resting on the map. His gaze was distant, his expression unreadable. The Kaizetsu had been born in fire and blood, and he knew, deep down, that it would end the same way.
But for now, there was a train to catch.
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