Erald City had a different energy after dark.
The gleaming skyscrapers and corporate plazas that dominated the city center gave way to older neighborhoods as Jayden rode his hoverbike deeper into the downtown district. The buildings here were lower, made of brick and concrete instead of glass and steel. Graffiti covered walls told stories in vibrant colors—territorial markers, morials to the fallen, declarations of love and war.
Street corners held groups of people despite the late hour. Music drifted from open windows—old school hip-hop, modern trap, the occasional lodic R&B. Corner stores with bulletproof glass windows stayed open, their neon signs advertising phone cards, liquor, and quick cash loans.
This was a different part of Erald City. One that tourists didn’t visit. One that the wealthy pretended didn’t exist.
But it was alive in a way the sterile corporate districts could never be.
Jayden checked the address Fred had given him, then guided his bike down a side street. The buildings here were even older—remnants of when this neighborhood had been a thriving theater district decades ago. Most of the venues were closed now, their marquees dark and faded.
But one building stood out.
From the outside, it looked abandoned—boarded windows, peeling paint, a faded sign that read "APOLLO THEATER - CLOSED FOR RENOVATION." But Jayden’s enhanced hearing picked up sounds from within. Music. Voices. The distinctive crack of sothing heavy hitting flesh.
This was the place.
He dismissed his hoverbike with a command, the machine dissolving into holographic particles that were absorbed back into his glove. Then he approached the entrance—a heavy steel door with no visible handle, just a small slot at eye level.
Jayden knocked. Three sharp raps.
The slot slid open, revealing a pair of dark eyes that studied him with professional assessnt.
"You lost, kid?" The voice was deep, dismissive.
"I’m here to see the Umpire’s leader," Jayden said evenly. "Fred sent ."
The eyes narrowed. "Fred who?" They asked.
"Just Fred. He said your leader would know."
There was a long pause. Then: "Wait here."
The slot closed.
Jayden stood on the street, hyperaware of the people watching from nearby corners. He could feel their eyes on him—assessing, calculating, deciding if he was prey or predator.
He kept his posture relaxed but ready. Non-threatening but not weak.
After what felt like an eternity but was probably only two minutes, the door opened.
The bouncer... a mountain of a man appeared. He was six-foot-six, easily three hundred pounds of muscle packed into a black tee that struggled to contain his bulk. His dark skin was marked with old scars, and his biceps were covered in intricate tattoo work—geotric patterns mixed with script Jayden couldn’t read.
"Yo, twin," the bouncer said, his voice the sa one from the slot. "You got ID?"
Jayden pulled out his student ID. The man examined it with surprising thoroughness, then handed it back.
"Arms out." He ordered.
Jayden complied. The bouncer patted him down professionally, checking for weapons. He found nothing.
"Alright," The bouncer grunted. Then he stepped aside. "Co with . Don’t touch nothing. Don’t talk to nobody. Just follow ."
Jayden entered, and the door clanged shut behind him with a finality that made his instincts prickle.
The interior was nothing like the abandoned exterior suggested.
The old theater had been gutted and repurposed. The main entrance hall—once ornate with its original 1950s architecture—now served as a casino floor. Poker tables, craps tables, roulette wheels, all surrounded by people gambling with the kind of intensity that suggested this was more than recreation.
The players were n ranging from their twenties to their fifties. Gold chains caught the light from overhead fixtures, tattoos were visible on their necks and hands. The air was thick with cigar smoke, expensive cologne, and the tallic scent of money changing hands.
Dealers called out odds in rapid-fire cadence. Chips clicked. Cards snapped against felt.
This was wealth. Just not the kind advertised in corporate boardrooms.
The bouncer led Jayden through the casino floor without pausing. People glanced up, noted his presence, then returned to their gas. No one seed particularly concerned about a teenager walking through.
They reached a staircase descending into what had once been the theater’s lower level. The sounds from below grew louder as they descended—shouting, music, and that distinctive impact sound Jayden had heard from outside.
The basent had been converted into a fight club.
The space was massive—probably the original theater’s orchestra pit and storage areas combined. In the center was a chain-link cage, maybe twenty feet in diater, surrounded by tiered rows of seats that rose up the walls.
The cage was currently occupied.
Two fighters circled each other—both shirtless, both bleeding. One was a lean Latino man with lightning-fast hands. The other was a stocky Black man built like a tank. They’d clearly been at it for a while; both were breathing hard, sweat making their skin gleam under harsh overhead lights.
The crowd surrounding the cage was at least a hundred strong, all shouting, all holding tickets or waving cash. The energy was electric, primal.
The lean fighter feinted left, then exploded right with a spinning kick. The stocky fighter caught the leg, twisted, and threw his opponent hard into the cage wall. The chain-link rattled violently. The crowd roared.
Jayden’s eyes tracked the follow-up—a brutal ground-and-pound that had the lean fighter’s guard crumbling. Blood spattered the canvas. The referee—an older man with gray in his beard—watched closely, hand ready to call it.
The bouncer didn’t slow down. He led Jayden around the periter of the fight pit toward a door marked "PRIVATE" in faded gold lettering.
Two more guards flanked this door—both big, both ard with visible sidearms. They nodded at Marcus, eyed Jayden, but said nothing.
The bouncer knocked twice, then opened the door slightly to look in.
"There’s a kid here who says Fred sent him." He said to soone on the inside.
"Let him in." The voice from within was deep, smooth, carrying the kind of casual authority that didn’t need to be loud.
The bouncer stepped aside, and Jayden entered.
The room had clearly been soone’s office once—maybe the theater manager’s. Now it was sothing else entirely.
Expensive leather furniture. A massive mahogany desk that probably cost more than most people’s cars. Flat screens on the walls showing different cara feeds—the casino floor, the fight cage, exterior streets. A fully stocked bar in the corner with bottles that Jayden recognized as costing thousands of credits each.
And sitting behind the desk, surrounded by four lieutenants who looked like they could bench-press small vehicles, was the leader of the Umpire gang.
A man who was popularly known as Big T.
He was huge—not tall like the bouncer, but wide. Easily six-foot-four and well over three hundred pounds, all of it carried with the kind of presence that filled a room. His dark skin was smooth, unmarred by the scars his soldiers bore. He wore a tailored vest over a crisp white tee, and gold chains hung around his neck. Diamond studs in both ears caught the light. His hair was cut in a perfect fade, edges sharp enough to cut.
But it was his eyes that struck Jayden. They looked Intelligent. Calculating. Missing nothing.
This wasn’t just a gang leader. This was a businessman.
Big T leaned back in his chair, studying Jayden with an expression that gave nothing away. One hand held a rocks glass with amber liquid—probably bourbon from the bottle on his desk. The other rested on the armrest, diamond-studded watch glinting.
"Fred sent you," he said, his voice carrying a asured cadence, each word deliberate. "That’s interesting. He don’t send people to lightly."
"He said you might be able to help ," Jayden replied, keeping his voice steady despite the four very dangerous n flanking Big T’s desk.
"Help?" Big T smiled slightly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "That’s an interesting word, youngblood. See, in my world, ain’t nobody helping nobody out of the kindness of their heart. Everything’s got a price. Everything’s a transaction." He gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk. "So sit. Let’s talk business."
Jayden sat.
Big T took a sip of his bourbon, savoring it. "You ca from Fred. That an sothing, ’cause Fred and I go back. Way back. He don’t send just anybody through my door." His eyes narrowed slightly. "But I don’t know you. So let’s start simple. What is it you’re looking for?"
"The Black Cobra," Jayden said. "I need to know the people running the human trafficking branch and where they hang out."
The room went silent imdiately.
One of Big T’s lieutenants let out a low scoff, wanting to say sothing. Big T held up one hand, and the man went silent.
"The black cobra," Big T repeated slowly. "As in the syndicate?"
"Yes." Jayden said flatly.
Big T’s expression turned serious. "And what is it you want with them?" he asked.
Jayden voice was firm. "They took soone I care about, and I want her back."
Big T chuckled. "How are you so sure they have this person?" he asked in curiosity. "Did they send you a ssage asking for ransom?"
Jayden shook his head. "No. But I’m certain they have her," he said sharply. "And I believe you can confirm that for ."
Big T studied Jayden for a long mont, then leaned forward, elbows on his desk. "Youngblood, let explain sothing to you. The Black Cobra Syndicate is one of the most dangerous organizations on the planet. They got reach. They got resources. They got people in places people shouldn’t be." He paused. "You understand what I’m saying?"
"I understand they have my friend," Jayden replied coldly. "And I need to find her."
"Hmm." Big T sat back again. "You got heart, I’ll give you that. Coming in here, asking about the Cobras like you gonna do sothing about it." He swirled his bourbon. "But heart don’t an shit if you dead. And going after the Cobras? That’s a good way to end up dead."
Jayden was unfazed. "I’ll take that risk."
"Will you?" Big T’s expression was unreadable. "See, here’s my problem, youngblood. Information about the Black Cobra Syndicate? That’s expensive information. The kind of information people kill for. The kind of information that gets people killed just for asking about it."
"I can pay," Jayden said. "How much do you want?"
Big T smiled in amusent. "Pay? With what? Cash? Nah, youngblood. I don’t need your money. I got money coming out my ears."
Jayden frowned. "Then what do you want?"
Big T’s smile widened. "Now we getting sowhere." He stood, walked to the bar, poured himself another two fingers of bourbon. "I like you, kid. You got a direct way about you. No bullshit. I respect that." He turned back, leaning against the bar. "So I’ma be direct with you too."
He took a sip.
"I might have information about the Black Cobras’ recent... acquisitions. But I don’t give that information away for free. Not to strangers. So here’s what’s gonna happen." He pointed at Jayden with the glass. "You gonna do a job for . Sothing that needs handling. You do it right, prove you serious, prove you capable... then we talk about what I know."
Jayden didn’t even hesitate. "What’s the job?"
"I’ll send you the details later," Big T said. "I need to make so arrangents first. But trust , youngblood—you pull this off, you’ll have earned what I got to tell you."
Jayden hesitated now. He was about to take a job he knew nothing about. It could be anything. And he had no guarantee Big T would actually follow through.
"How do I know you won’t scam ?" Jayden asked. "I do your job, and then you tell you don’t have the information after all?"
The room went quiet again. Big T’s lieutenants tensed.
But Big T just laughed. "Hahaha! Man, I like you. You don’t trust easy. That’s smart." He set his glass down and walked back to his desk. "Let tell you sothing about , youngblood. I built this organization on reputation. My word is bond. I say I’ma do sothing, it get done. I say I got information, I got it."
He sat back down, fixing Jayden with a serious look.
"You want proof? Ask Fred. Ask him if Big T keeps his word. Ask him if I ever gone back on a deal." Big T leaned forward. "I run a business here. Can’t run a business if people don’t trust you. So when I say you do this job and I’ll give you what you need? I an that. You can take it or leave it."
Jayden studied the man across the desk. Everything about Big T’s body language, his tone, his reputation according to Fred... it all suggested he was telling the truth.
And more importantly, Jayden didn’t have many other options. He needed to Cassandra no matter what it took. No matter what job he had to do.
"Okay," Jayden said. "I’ll do the job."
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