Neon Flames and Ashen Contracts

Lucien Blackmoore pushed through the back veins of Valthara Prime like he belonged to the filth under its fingernails. He didn't just move through the rot—he carried it. Wore it in the way his steps refused to flinch from puddles thick with runoff and old oil, in the scrape of his coat's hem dragging through discarded needles and dead tech. If someone cut him open here, the alley wouldn't just know him. It would recognize him.

The walls leaned in, too narrow to be legal, all blistered paint and rust-peeled warnings. Trash slouched in the corners like it had given up the idea of moving. There was a smell under everything, thick and itchy on the tongue—burnt wiring, ash, piss, the sweet rot of a fruit stand long dead and half-stomped. Rain slicked the concrete, not freshening anything, just making it shine like open wounds.

Above, a broken fan hiccupped in the window of a third-story tenement, coughing hot air into the wet like it couldn't stand its own breath. Down here, the light dripped from neon signs like infected blood. Every color was wrong—pink like raw meat, green like a corpse bruise, blue that made your molars ache. Lucien glanced up once, saw a rune blinking half-lit above a doorway marked with old gang glyphs. It twitched like it wanted out.

He tugged his coat tighter, cracked crimson leather folding over itself with a tired creak. The thing had seen fires. Fistfights. Probably hell. The inside lining had gone threadbare years ago, and the shoulders still stank faintly of brimstone. It rasped with each movement like it was trying to whisper something he didn't want to hear.

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

The ledger's glyphs pulsed faintly, revealing data only he could read: "Souls bound: 18. Boon progress: 72%. Informants active nearby: 3."

Lucien didn't stop moving. The alleys here didn't forgive hesitation.

He passed a hunched figure sitting on an overturned crate, face half-covered in old cyberware and regret. The man blinked at Lucien, narrowed his eyes, then looked away fast.

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

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

That earned a wheeze of a laugh, then a wet cough that sounded like it might end the guy.

He turned the next corner and saw 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 and a vest stitched from scavenged armor panels. Her eyes, though—those burned. Not warm, but alive. Like lit fuses waiting on an excuse.

Lucien let his pace slow a little. Let her see him coming.

She'd set up in the middle of the alley's worst stretch like it was hers. No tarp, no shade. Just a table of scrap magic and death trinkets nailed to scavenged planks. Charms of bone and wire, sigils burned onto rusted metal plates, jars full of viscous red fluid that glowed like they were keeping something warm. Incense smoked up from a cracked ceramic bowl, thick as syrup, biting the eyes and crawling down the throat like it had claws.

The Ledger pulsed sharply. It fed him live updates: "Cassian proxy within range. Surveillance drone active. Token forged—counterfeit embedded in vendor's defenses."

Lucien stepped through the smoke, lips twitching. "Mara, darlin'," he said, voice worn down like a favorite matchbook. "These alleys are a busted lung, but you… you're the little flame flickering in the blood. Sign here…" He slipped the parchment from 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 right away. Just looked him over. The weight of it felt like being measured for a coffin.

Then she smiled—barely. "Lucien," she said, dragging the syllables just enough to make them dangerous. "Still trying to sell sin with sugar. This one another savior's lie wrapped in pretty paper, or is it just good ol' damnation again?"

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

She stepped forward, slow but grounded, boots thunking 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, warning cold and clear: "Her panic registered. Resistance growing. Binding boon ready. Soul ash residue detectable."

Lucien didn't blink. Just nodded once.

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

Lucien pivoted, coat flaring slightly, hand already to his belt where the blade waited—not for protection, just ritual. If something wanted him dead, it wouldn't be from a knife fight.

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

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

There. On the wood. Burned deep into the grain, still warm with whatever had seared it, a mark twisted like something screamed it into place. Not a clean sigil. Not even structured. Just fury made into shape. Sloppy, spiteful, unstable.

Cassian's.

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

Mara stepped beside him, squinting at it. Her mouth tightened. "That's his," she said, no room for doubt. "Looks like it was carved mid-seizure. Bastard's getting messier."

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

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

The drone beeped once, then zipped up and vanished between the buildings. Far off, sirens started howling—one, then another, a layered wail rising like the city itself was warning them. Or laughing.

Lucien looked back at her. The incense still curled around them, lazy and greasy. For a moment, it felt like the alley had collapsed into just the two of them. Like 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, gave him a look. 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 under 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 in wrong. Mara followed a half step behind.

Up above, the signs flickered. One sparked out with a fizzle and a snap, sending down a slow drizzle of light. The city watched with its teeth out.

The Ledger whispered another 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 was almost a snarl itself: "You're no better."

Lucien tugged his coat around him tighter, like it might matter. The city stank of coming blood.

And he had contracts to keep.