Neon Flames and Ashen Contracts

Lucien Blackmoore pushed through the back veins of Valthara Prime like he belonged to the filth under its fingernails. If someone cut him open here, the alley wouldn't just know him. It would recognize him like a scar.

The walls leaned in close, narrow enough to be illegal if anyone cared—blistered paint peeling like scabs, rust-peeled warnings half-eaten by time. Trash slouched in the corners like it had quit the idea of moving. There was a smell beneath everything—thick and biting on the tongue—burnt wiring, ash, piss, and the sour rot of a fruit stand long dead and half stomped under careless boots.

 Lucien glanced up, catching a rune blinking half-lit above a doorway marked with old gang glyphs. It twitched like it wanted out, like it remembered something better.

He tugged his coat tighter around him. The cracked crimson leather folded over itself with a tired creak—the sound of a thing that had survived fire and fistfights and maybe a little hell. The lining was threadbare years back, shoulders still faintly smelling of brimstone. Every movement rasped like the coat was trying to whisper some warning he wasn't ready to hear.

Beneath the layers, the Ledger pressed cold against his chest, alive and humming. Its runes flickered in rhythm with his heartbeat—contracts signed, souls tracked, boons stacking toward the elusive twenty-five needed for the next unlocking. Its whispers slipped beneath his skin: "Vendor Mara—desperation mapped. Spies detected. Decoy intel deployed."

The Ledger's glyphs pulsed faintly, invisible to everyone but him: "Souls bound: 18. Boon progress: 72%. Informants active nearby: 3."

Lucien didn't stop moving. Hesitation was a luxury these alleys didn't grant.

A hunched figure sat on an overturned crate, face half-hidden behind cracked cyberware and old regrets. The man blinked at Lucien, narrowed eyes, then looked away fast.

"Wrong night to walk flashy, Red," he rasped without looking back.

Lucien didn't break stride but let a slow grin curl across his face. "Lucky for me, I don't walk. I haunt."

The man wheezed out a laugh that cracked into a wet cough, like it might be his last.

Turning the corner, Lucien spotted her.

Mara leaned against a shipping crate like it owed her money. No flash, no makeup. She wore weariness like warpaint—smudged jaw, hair pulled back with what looked like an old cord from a data spike. Her clothes were practical—heavy boots, a vest stitched from scavenged armor panels. But her eyes burned—not warm, just alive. Like fuses waiting for a spark.

Lucien slowed just enough to let her see him coming.

She'd set up shop in the alley's worst stretch like it was hers—no tarp, no shade. Just a rickety table nailed together from scavenged planks, piled with scrap magic and death's trophies. Charms of bone and wire, sigils burned onto rusted metal plates, jars full of viscous red fluid glowing like they were keeping something warm. Incense curled from a cracked ceramic bowl, thick and choking—biting the eyes and crawling down the throat like it had claws.

The Ledger pulsed sharply now, feeding live updates into his awareness: "Cassian proxy within range. Surveillance drone active. Token forged—counterfeit embedded in vendor's defenses."

Lucien stepped through the haze of smoke, lips twitching. "Mara, darlin'," he said, voice rough as a well-worn matchbook. "These alleys are a busted lung, but you… you're the little flame flickering in the blood. Sign here…" He slipped a parchment free from inside his coat and tapped it once. "...and we're in business. Soul for soul. Front-row seats to whatever's coming next."

She didn't answer at once, just looked him over. The weight of her gaze felt like being measured for a coffin.

Then she smiled—just barely.

"Lucien," she drawled, dragging the name like a blade. "Still trying to sell sin with sugar. Is this another savior's lie wrapped in pretty paper, or just good ol' damnation again?"

Lucien laughed, quiet and close. "Smoke's gotta come from somewhere. You know how fire works."

She stepped forward, deliberate and grounded. Boots thunked solid against the concrete. "I'm in," she said, voice low and sharp as a lockpick. "But if this goes sideways—if Cassian's scent is anywhere near it—I'll burn the whole thing down. With you inside."

The Ledger pulsed again, cold and clear: "Her panic registered. Resistance growing. Binding boon ready. Soul ash residue detectable."

Lucien didn't blink. He nodded once.

Then something snapped in the shadows—wood cracking, something heavy tumbling. Sharp. Too close.

He pivoted, coat flaring, hand already on his belt where the blade waited—not for protection, just ritual. If someone wanted him dead, it wouldn't be by a knife fight.

A drone skimmed overhead, no bigger than a child's toy, but its lens moved like a surgeon's eye. Scanning. Recording. Its buzz had that itchy sound—like teeth grinding in the walls.

Lucien tracked it with his gaze, then looked back toward the fallen crate.

There, burned deep into the grain of the wood—still warm with whatever had seared it—a mark twisted as if something had screamed it into place. Not a clean sigil. Not structured. Just fury made flesh. Sloppy, spiteful, unstable.

Cassian's.

Lucien exhaled slow. "Another cipher. Burned right into the bones."

Mara stepped beside him, squinting. Her mouth tightened. "That's his," she said flat. "Looks like it was carved mid-seizure. Bastard's getting messier."

The Ledger's glow flared, glyphs shifting: "Token forged. Cassian proxy nearby. Syndicate hit imminent."

Lucien swiped soot from his cheek with the back of his hand. "He's pushing harder now. No finesse. Just noise and blood and more noise. Trying to drown the signal."

The drone beeped once, zipped up and vanished between buildings.

Far off, sirens began howling—one, then another, a layered wail rising like the city itself warning them. Or laughing.

Lucien glanced back at Mara. Incense still curled thick and greasy. For a moment, it felt like the alley shrank to just the two of them—as if the whole city held its breath.

He spoke quieter now. "Stay sharp. Stick close. If this fire starts, I'll make sure it burns clean."

She tilted her head, eyes sharp. Not quite trust, not quite warning. "Deal's made, Blackmoore. But don't forget—some of us still remember the smell of burnt lies."

Lucien's grin cracked wider, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I only burn what asks for it."

The Ledger pulsed harder against his ribs. "Binding soul now. Boon granted—twenty-five souls tally met. Contract sealed with residue of traded souls—soul ash marking the ledger."

He turned toward the deeper end of the alley where the lights got meaner and the walls bent wrong. Mara followed a half-step behind.

Above, signs flickered. One sparked out with a fizzle and snap, spilling a slow drizzle of light. The city watched with its teeth bared.

The Ledger whispered one last pulse, urgent and biting: "Cassian's proxy crashed a rival market. Chaos lacks finesse. Counter-sting forming."

Lucien snarled low. "Cassian's chaos lacks finesse."

The Ledger's final murmur felt like a snarl itself: "You're no better."

He tugged his coat tighter as if it mattered. The city stank of coming blood.

And he had contracts to keep.