The Veilshade Trading Game

The neon overhead wasn't steady. It sputtered, gasped, then almost died, like it was on its last breath and didn't much care if it stayed alive. Shadows jumped across the chipped plaster walls of the Rust Lantern, the plaster peeling in ragged strips, hanging like old skin nobody bothered to peel off. The walls looked like they'd been forgotten longer than the city had any right to remember. The light flickered uneven, making the grime and the rusted pipes seem to twitch, like they were crawling with some restless itch the place couldn't scratch. The air inside smelled sharp—burnt wires soaked in oil, cheap synth-smoke mixed with something sour and bitter underneath, like the last ragged breath of hope the Rust Lantern ever had. The dirt wasn't just surface deep. It'd sunk into the bar's bones, crawled up the pipes, hung from the cracked ceiling like it belonged, like it was part of the story this place told.

Lucien Blackmoore slipped inside quick and easy, pushing the battered door with a smooth slide that barely made a sound. His boots hit the stained, cracked floorboards hard enough to shake the place a little. Somewhere behind the bar, a busted holo-speaker throbbed out a low, broken bass, rumbling underfoot like it was the city's rotten heart beating slow and sick. His coat hung loose, half open, collar soaked in sweat from the stale heat and the Ledger's steady pressure against his ribs. That dull ache inside fit right in with the jittery rhythm of the bar. The smirk on his face never budged—worn like a second skin or a crooked grin carved into bone. The Rust Lantern was a battlefield for the broken, the desperate, the damned. Lucien knew how to get dirty better than most who stumbled in here.

His eyes flicked sharp across the room. Dark corners jammed tight with jittery hustlers grinding their teeth like they were chewing on grit, brawlers nursing fresh bruises that looked angry even in the low light, and lowlifes who seemed like they were a single bad call away from tumbling off the edge into something uglier. Near the back, two Iron Crows stood stiff and tense. Leather jackets scuffed and stitched with faded insignias—teeth and claws for hire. They caught sight of Lucien like vultures scenting fresh blood miles away. Their eyes locked on him, hard and hungry.

Lucien's grin sharpened, slicing through the noise like a knife. "Elise," he muttered under his breath, scanning the chaos for the one person who could keep him breathing in this mess.

Behind the counter, Elise wiped down the bar with a rag that looked as worn and tired as the whole damn place. Her dark curls pulled back tight, rough and messy in a way that told you she didn't waste time polishing. Her eyes flicked to his—a quick, sharp spark like shattered glass catching what little light was left. No need for words. She knew the score. She knew the exits. Elise wasn't some shining hope, but in this rotten pit, she was the closest thing Lucien had to a lifeline.

Sliding up to the bar, Lucien dropped his voice low and thick, soaked with easy charm and a thread of danger that always ran under his words. "Elise, darlin', this place feels like a warzone tonight, but you're my shield. Keep me out of sight, and I owe you a spin—drinks on me, maybe something sweeter after the last round."

She rolled her eyes but the ghost of a smile tugged at her mouth's corner, rough and practiced. Sliding a glass his way without missing a beat, she said, "Trouble follows you, Blackmoore. But hell, you're my kind of trouble."

The nearest Iron Crow stalked closer, boots thumping hard against cracked floorboards like some bad omen on a march. Lucien caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, twisted just in time to slip out of a sudden grab. His fingers brushed cold steel tucked beneath his coat sleeve, ready to bite back fast if he needed. The other thug growled low, thick with warning, but Lucien was already moving—slick, slipping through the crowd like smoke squeezing through a cracked window.

"Easy, boys," he said with that crooked grin, eyes glinting dark amusement. "I'm here for a drink, not a funeral."

The bar snapped to life around him, murmurs rising, low laughter spilling out like water from broken pipes, but the eyes stayed hard—knives sheathed but not forgotten.

Lucien leaned back against the sticky wall near the ancient jukebox. The machine flickered weak and strange, casting odd light that caught something odd on the scarred plaster behind it. A sigil, half-buried under chipped black spray paint—smudged and sloppy, like whoever threw it on was too drunk or just didn't care. Cassian's bastard signature, rough and raw as ever.

His fingertip traced the twisted spiral slow, feeling the rough lines press into his mind like a brand. That son of a bitch always left a mark, even when he didn't want to be found. Cassian was playing some sick game of cat and mouse, tagging walls instead of sending messages.

"Elise," Lucien said soft enough only she could hear, nodding toward the sigil. "Another damn mark? That guy's got zero flair. Like a drunk signing his own name."

She looked over, lips pulling tight into a grimace. "Bad news, Lucien. Means his chaos is bleeding back into the streets, creeping into our corners again."

Lucien flicked his watch between his fingers, eyes sharp, calculating. "Then we better make damn sure it doesn't get a foothold."

Her hand slipped onto his arm, warm and steady. "Got a back room. Quiet. Safe. You can hole up there till the heat dies off."

His grin softened just a touch, almost real for a flicker. "You're a saint in a city full of sinners, Elise."

She shrugged, eyes flicking back toward the tension rising as the Iron Crows lurched closer. "Don't get caught tonight. I'd miss the show."

The lead goon lunged suddenly, but Lucien was quicker—ducked low, snatched a broken pool cue off the wall with a snap, and sent it crashing into a table. Glass shattered, drinks flew, and the bar erupted into chaos. Patrons screamed or ducked low, Iron Crows froze, rattled by the sudden storm.

Lucien didn't hesitate. He slipped through the gap, elbows cutting through stale air, weaving between bodies like a ghost who'd danced this dangerous dance too many times to count.

"Hide me," he called over the roar, voice steady despite the pounding in his chest. "And I owe you that spin."

She gave a sharp nod and vanished through the crowd, shutting the back door tight. The muffled noise fell away, leaving silence heavy enough to choke on.

In the cramped back room, Lucien sank against the peeling plaster wall. The faint neon buzz seeped through a cracked window like a tired heartbeat. His breath evened, but the Ledger's weight throbbed relentless inside him.

His gaze drifted back to the smudged sigil, burned into his mind like a brand he couldn't scrub off.

Cassian's chaos edged closer every damn day.

Outside, the street felt like a cage snapping shut. Lucien was the fox trying to stay one step ahead, nerves tight, eyes sharp.

The Rust Lantern's neon sign sputtered uncertain, casting red and blue ghosts across slick alley pavement. The city breathed fire and poison.

Elise's voice floated through the cracked door, soft and steady. "You wanna talk strategy or just catch your breath?"

Lucien's grin slid back, sharper, darker. "Both. But first, I owe you that spin."

The Rust Lantern might be a hole full of rot and regret, but in the twisted veins of this rotten city, Lucien Blackmoore was still king of the dancefloor. No damn sigil or syndicate thug was gonna change that.