Players

They began by asking around. Locals in the area were hesitant at first—but eventually, a few whispered the name of the company:

Korbel Constructions.

It was owned and operated by none other than Korin Bell himself.

The main office was located deep inside Inner Lowden, surrounded by clean pavement and high steel fences.

The group kept their distance at first. After a quick discussion, it was decided that Myth would go in alone—pose as a customer, gather details, see who ran the place from the front.

He entered the building, taking in the polished marble floors and minimalist decor. Behind the reception desk sat a man in a crisp blue shirt.

The man looked up, eyes sharp but polite.

"How can I help you, sir?"

Myth offered a faint smile.

"I'm looking for someone to build a two-storey home. Figured I'd see what you offer."

The receptionist nodded professionally.

"Of course. Please wait a moment—we'll assign a consultant to walk you through everything."

Ten minutes passed.

Eventually, a woman in formal attire approached and gestured for him to follow. She led him down a corridor. They reached a glass-paneled cabin, the kind meant to look open but still project authority.

Inside stood a man in his mid-40s, clean-shaven, sharp suit, neatly combed hair.

He rose from behind the desk and extended his hand.

"Welcome. I'm Rendan—senior project manager here at Korbel Constructions. I hear you're interested in us?"

His tone was smooth, measured—practiced.

Myth took his hand, keeping his expression neutral.

Myth took the man's hand, keeping his expression neutral.

"That's right," he said. "I'm Sid. Sid Hayden. I'm here on behalf of my father."

Rendan gave a courteous nod, still standing.

"Mr. Hayden, what exactly are you looking for?"

"A two-storey house," Myth replied. "In Outer Lowden."

Rendan smiled, gesturing toward his desk.

"Ah, excellent choice. Our company's done several projects in Outer Lowden—especially near Street 6. Still standing tall. No cracks, no peeling paint. That's the kind of durability we take pride in."

He paused, his voice steady but subtly confident.

"Feel free to check them out, sir."

"I'll do that," Myth said. "Can you give me more details on those projects?"

Rendan began listing properties—block numbers, build dates, client references. Some were modest homes; others were larger contracts. A surprising number were still under warranty. He even mentioned a few government-approved structures near the fringe of Inner Lowden.

As the list continued, one thing became clear:

Korbel Constructions wasn't small-time. They were established. Popular. And well-connected.

Myth leaned forward slightly.

"What would you say Korbel does better than its competitors?"

Rendan's eyes lit up, clearly expecting the question.

"We use high-grade cement—imported blend, reinforced for long-term integrity. No other company in this price bracket uses the same material. And more importantly, we take our time. No cutting corners. Each project is tailored precisely to the client's needs."

He smiled, lowering his voice slightly, like sharing a trade secret.

"I'll be honest—our prices are a bit higher. But that extra cost ensures fewer repairs down the line. It's an investment in peace of mind."

"If you're building a home meant to last a lifetime, Mr. Hayden," he added smoothly, "a little more on the foundation can save a fortune down the road."

Myth nodded thoughtfully. He asked a few more technical questions—about timelines, average costs, land requirements, materials used in finishing, and team size.

Rendan answered all of them without skipping a beat.

Once satisfied, Myth stood. Rendan rose as well.

"If you do choose Korbel Constructions," he said, offering his hand again, "I'll personally oversee the project. And I guarantee—no problems."

Myth gave a polite nod, shook the man's hand, and turned to leave—his mind already sorting through what he'd just learned.

Back at the house, Myth laid out everything he'd gathered.

He spoke calmly, detailing the company structure, their cement claims, and the list of sites near Street 6.

Walker leaned back, arms folded. "Street 6 sounds like it's hiding something. And if those government projects are legit, then the political VIP present with Korin Bell might be the one overseeing them."

He paused. "We should look into their ongoing projects too. Especially the ones that haven't been completed yet."

Ashley tapped her fingers against the table. "The cement is worth checking. Rendan claimed it's what sets them apart. That could be true—or just sales talk. Either way, if it's rare or imported, there's a trail."

Myth nodded. "Construction companies make perfect smuggling fronts. And don't forget—Bragg Dann was there too. The man handles transport. This could be their shared playground."

Walker's tone dropped slightly. "Alright. I'll fight again tonight.Victor and Ashley, place small bets to avoid suspicion."

Then he turned to Ashley. "While you're at it—get more on the VIPs."

Ashley gave a half-smile. "Got it."

Myth and Sira headed out for work, the silence between them heavy and awkward.

Neither spoke for a while. The streets were quiet—just the low hum of trams.

After a few minutes, Myth broke the silence.

"Today I'll start probing the customers for information. You keep an ear out—anything related to Lazik or his people."

Sira nodded slowly. "Okay…"

Her voice was soft, like she wanted to say more—but held it in.

They reached the bar around 6:15 p.m.

As usual, they cleaned up and exchanged some idle chatter with Riff. The routine helped ease the tension slightly, though not entirely.

Soon, customers began trickling in.

Myth took charge of the drinks, sticking to the handful he'd mastered. But this time, he made a conscious effort to initiate conversations—especially with those sitting alone, the ones who looked like they were waiting for someone.

With the regulars, he kept it light.

Nothing too probing—just small talk. Their names, where they worked, how the day had been. A few shared stories. A few waved him off.

With the regulars, he kept it light.

Nothing too probing—just small talk. Names, jobs, the usual gripes about weather and wages.

A few waved him off. A few opened up, loose-lipped from their third drink.

Myth wasn't digging—just planting seeds.

And marking faces.

Construction workers. Couriers. Freelancers. A guy who claimed to be a locksmith. Another who bragged about collecting debts.

People who might be useful someday.

He leaned over the counter toward a gruff man with broad shoulders and faded ink on his forearm—Mr. Harlon. One of the more regular regulars.

"So... Mr. Harlon, I was in Joeberg for a month," Myth said, pouring a splash of Rustbrew. "Let me tell you, the prices there are criminal. Rent's triple what it is here."

He paused.

"Though, I'll admit—the crime here sort of evens it out."

Harlon snorted, already tipsy, his elbow sliding a bit on the counter.

"These damn politicians, that's the problem." He waved a hand vaguely toward the wall, as if they were hiding behind it.

"They just take and take. Don't lift a finger for the streets. Lowden used to be a real place, y'know? Families, festivals, clean blocks."

He took another swig.

"Now it's all rubble and runoff. Junkies and gang kids. They let it rot."

Myth nodded, eyes calm, letting the silence sit.

"You've been here a while?"

"Born right off second Lane." Harlon thumped his chest. "Watched this city change from my house, kid. Not all of it for the better."

Myth filed that away.

On the other side of the dim-lit room, Sira had just finished serving a round of drinks.

As usual, a few customers tried to pull her into casual, borderline flirtatious conversations.

She kept it professional—smiling politely, answering with soft, short words, then moving on.

As she stepped away, tray tucked under one arm, she caught the tail end of a conversation behind her.

The tone had shifted—no longer lazy and half-drunken, but loud and boasting.

"That bastard ran!" one of them burst out, laughter following like a chorus.

"Zarin's the real deal," another chimed in, thumping the table. "Took down a bunch of Rollo's goons like it was nothing."

"As long as Zarin's around, This part of Outer Lowden's ours. Rollo won't dare step foot here."

The voices rang loud and proud—boasting, cheering, full of rowdy confidence.

Then, as quickly as it rose, the noise mellowed. The group moved on, drinks in hand, their attention drifting.

Sira walked past, her steps slow.

'Zarin… Rollo...' she thought, eyes narrowing.

'Territorial. Sounds like a turf war brewing. We'll need to dig into this.'

A week slipped by.

They gathered scraps—bits of general knowledge about Outer Lowden, the streets, the players, the noise. Enough to sketch the outline of the board, but far from a full picture.

Too many blanks remained. Too many pieces still hidden.

Myth wasn't satisfied.

The pace felt sluggish, the leads shallow. And he knew better than most—when the police or military made their move, and they would, everything would change.

If they weren't already in position by then, navigating the aftermath would be a hell of a lot harder.