Monty crouched down beside the woman, his voice softer now. "You live nearby?"
She nodded, still clutching her ribs. "Few blocks that way." She pointed deeper into the district, toward the cluster of buildings rising like mismatched towers.
Kínitos exchanged a glance with Monty. "We'll take you home. Make sure you get there safe."
"You don't have to—"
"We're doing it," Monty said firmly, helping her to her feet. She winced but didn't pull away.
They moved quickly through the narrow streets, the woman leaning on Monty's shoulder for support. Kínitos kept his eyes scanning the rooftops, the alleyways, every shadow that moved.
The district opened up into a maze of towering buildings—apartments stacked on top of each other like Lego blocks, haphazard and unstable-looking. Rusted staircases zigzagged up the sides, laundry lines strung between balconies, the whole structure creaking in the wind.
"This is where you live?" Kínitos muttered, staring up at the precarious architecture.
"Welcome to District 18," the woman said with a bitter laugh. "Where the rent's cheap and the nightly gunfire that puts you to sleep."
They climbed three flights of external stairs, the metal groaning under their weight. The woman stopped at a door marked 3B, fumbling with her keys.
"Thank you," she said quietly, not looking at them. "Really. You didn't have to."
"Yeah, we did," Monty said.
She unlocked the door and slipped inside, closing it softly behind her. Kínitos and Monty stood there for a moment in the narrow hallway, catching their breath. Then Kínitos pulled up his watch, checking the mission location. The red dot pulsed on the map.
It was close. Maybe two buildings over.
"You seeing this?" Kínitos asked, showing Monty the screen.
Monty checked his own watch, eyes narrowing. "Yeah. We're practically on top of it." He glanced back at the woman's door, then at the address displayed on the map.
"Wait—what's the exact address?"
Kínitos read it aloud. "Building 7, Unit 4A. Why?"
The door behind them cracked open.
The woman's face appeared, pale and uncertain. "Did you just say Building 7, Unit 4A?"
Kínitos nodded slowly. "Yeah. You know it?"
She let out a shaky breath, something between a laugh and a sob.
"I work there."
Across the street, perched on a rusted fire escape, a man in a dark jacket watched them. He smiled—slow, deliberate, like he'd just witnessed something interesting.
He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over a contact labeled Boss.
Then he hit call.
Friday 12:29 the incident
Bass pounded through Monty's skull as he shoved his way through the crowd. Bodies pressed against him from all sides—dancers lost in the rhythm, smoke machines spewing purple haze, strobe lights cutting through the darkness in chaotic bursts.
"Where is he? Where the hell is Kínitos?"
He'd lost sight of him three floors ago. One second they were together, moving through the stairwell. The next, Kínitos had veered off toward a side corridor, saying something about checking the perimeter. That was ten minutes ago.
Monty pushed past a group grinding near a makeshift DJ booth, ducking under hanging lights and through a doorway that led to another cramped hallway. The building was a maze—every floor a different venue, different vibe, all of them packed wall-to-wall with people who didn't give a damn about two guys searching for answers.
His watch buzzed. He glanced down.
No signal.
"Shit."
He burst through an exit door, stumbling out onto a trash-strewn alley. The sudden quiet hit him like a wall. His ears rang from the bass, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He looked up at the towering structure—six stories of chaotic architecture, balconies jutting out at odd angles, neon signs flickering across multiple levels.And then the top floor exploded.
A massive fireball erupted from the sixth story, orange and purple flames tearing through windows and ripping chunks of concrete into the air. The shockwave hit a second later, slamming into Monty's chest and knocking him back against the alley wall.
Glass rained down. Metal shrieked. People inside screamed.
Monty stared up, frozen, his blood ice-cold.
Kínitos.
Thursday, 12:00 PM — 12 Hours Earlier
"Why is this building so important?" Monty asked, staring up at the structure.
It was massive—a towering Frankenstein's monster of mismatched architecture. Six stories of jagged edges, exposed rebar, and haphazard construction that looked like it had been assembled by someone with no concept of building codes. Each floor seemed to serve a different purpose: neon signs advertised clubs, restaurants, art galleries, recording studios. The whole thing pulsed with life and noise, music bleeding through walls and windows.
The woman stood beside them, arms wrapped around herself.
"It's called The Stack. It's… everything, basically. Clubs on the lower floors, private rooms up top. People come here for deals, for parties, for business. The Saint Patro owns it."
"It's an artist's wet dream," Monty muttered, shaking his head.
Kínitos pulled up his watch, double-checking the location. The red dot pulsed directly on the building. "Our intel said the meeting's happening tomorrow around noon. Fourth floor, Unit 4A."
The woman's face went pale. "That's where I work. It's a… private lounge. High-rollers only. You're not getting in there without an invitation."
"We're not planning on walking through the front door," Kínitos said.
She looked between them, uncertain. "You're really going in there? The Saint Patro doesn't mess around. If they catch you—"
"They won't," Monty said, more confidently than he felt.
The woman bit her lip, then sighed. "There's a service entrance on the east side. Staff use it to move supplies between floors. If you're careful, you might be able to slip in unnoticed."
Kínitos nodded. "Thank you."
She hesitated, then pulled a small card from her pocket—an employee keycard. "This'll get you through the service doors. But once you're inside…" She pressed it into Kínitos's hand. "Just… don't get caught."
"What is that gonna cost us?" asked Monty.
"It's a thanks for helping me…and for giving me a show when you beat the shit out of that bastard," she replied.
"Anytime," said Kínitos.
They both turned to look back at The Stack. A man walked out from the main entrance, surrounded by bodyguards—three on each side, moving in tight formation. The man himself wore an expensive suit, his tie loosened, still looking shaken. He climbed into a heavily modded car—black, armored, tinted windows so dark they looked like solid panels.