Part Two
The next night, the streets of The Undercity seemed sharper somehow, like every sound carried a hidden warning. Damian walked with his hands in his jacket pockets, head slightly down but eyes always moving. He wasn't dressed for show — dark jeans, a plain black shirt, a leather jacket that had seen better days — but he'd taken the time to shave, comb his hair, and make himself look like a man who belonged anywhere, even in the places where he didn't.
Nova Haven's nightlife bled through the blocks as he got closer to The Arts District. Neon signs reflected off rain-slick streets, music spilled from doorways, and the air was heavy with a cocktail of cigarette smoke, perfume, and something more illicit. Damian passed lines of people waiting to get into various bars and lounges, their laughter and chatter masking the quiet deals happening in the shadows just a few steps away.
Ravens wasn't the flashiest club in the city, but it didn't have to be. Its reputation was its currency. The exterior was all black steel and smoked glass, with a glowing crimson raven emblem above the entrance. Two bouncers — both built like slabs of concrete — flanked the door. They weren't there just to check IDs; they were there to decide who was allowed in.
Keys was already waiting by the rope line, wearing a tan overcoat over a garish floral shirt. His grin was wide, but Damian knew better than to mistake it for friendliness.
"Right on time," Keys said, glancing Damian over. "Good. Looking like you belong might save you in there."
One of the bouncers gave Keys a nod. No ID check, no questions. The rope lifted, and Damian followed Keys inside.
***
The first thing that hit him was the sound — not just music, but bass, deep and heavy enough to vibrate in his chest. The lighting was low and moody, with crimson highlights that made the whole place feel like it was submerged in dark wine. The bar stretched along one wall, glowing under soft backlight, while the rest of the club pulsed with bodies moving to the beat.
It smelled like liquor, sweat, and something expensive he couldn't name. The clientele was a mix — well-dressed suits from the Financial District rubbing shoulders with street muscle, girls in sequins whispering into the ears of men who smelled like money, and eyes everywhere. Always watching.
Keys led him through the crowd to a side hallway guarded by another man in a dark suit. The guard gave Keys a nod and stepped aside, letting them into a quieter corridor lit by a single overhead bulb.
"In there," Keys said, gesturing toward a heavy door at the end. "Don't say I never introduced you to opportunity."
Damian gave him a look. "You're not coming in?"
Keys smirked. "Nah. This is your dance, Smithen. I'm just the guy who brought you to the floor."
***
Damian stepped up to the door and knocked twice. A moment later, it opened to reveal a tall man in his late forties, lean, with slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair and a face that looked like it had been carved with a scalpel — sharp, deliberate features, nothing out of place. He wore a gray three-piece suit and an expression that said he didn't waste time.
"You're Damian," the man said. Not a question.
"That's me."
The man stepped aside, letting him in. The room was small but luxurious — a private lounge with dark wood paneling, leather chairs, and a glass cabinet filled with expensive liquor. A single table sat in the center, covered with neatly stacked papers and an open laptop.
"My name's Mercer," the man said, closing the door behind them. "I handle certain…financial matters for Ryan. You wanted to know about your family's debt."
Damian nodded. "I need numbers. Dates. Everything."
Mercer regarded him for a moment before sitting at the table and turning the laptop so Damian could see. "I'll tell you this much: your father borrowed twenty thousand from Ryan over the course of two years. First for a real estate deal that went bad. Then for medical expenses. Then to cover repayments when the interest started eating him alive."
Damian's stomach tightened. "And how much now?"
Mercer clicked through a spreadsheet. "With interest, late fees, and penalties…forty-six thousand, eight hundred and twelve dollars."
It was like a physical blow. Damian leaned back in the chair, trying to mask the jolt in his chest.
"That's not all," Mercer said. "Ryan's patience is running out. Your mother's last payment didn't even cover the interest for the month. At this rate, the debt will double again before it's gone."
Damian's jaw flexed. "So, he's planning to use them as collateral."
Mercer didn't answer right away. "Ryan sees people as assets. Some assets make money directly. Others…in different ways." His gaze held Damian's for a beat too long, and Damian knew exactly what he meant.
"Then I'll pay it off," Damian said. "Whatever it takes."
Mercer's mouth curved in something that was not quite a smile. "Big words. Do you have twenty grand lying around?"
"No."
"Then you'll need to earn it. Fast. And in this city, the only fast money comes with blood on it."
***
Before Damian could reply, the door opened, and Ryan himself walked in. The room seemed to shrink. He wore a charcoal suit with no tie, the top buttons of his shirt undone, revealing a gold chain against his chest. His grin was exactly as Damian remembered — wide, wolfish, and cold.
"Well, if it isn't our young hero," Ryan said, shutting the door behind him. "Heard you've been asking questions. That's dangerous."
"I just want to clear the debt," Damian said, keeping his voice even.
Ryan chuckled. "Of course, you do. But debts aren't just about money, kid. They're about respect. About knowing your place." He stepped closer, the scent of his cologne cutting through the air. "You want to make good on your family's mess? Fine. I've got a job for you. One night, one delivery. You pull it off, maybe I'll knock a chunk off that total."
"What kind of delivery?"
Ryan's grin widened. "The kind where you don't look inside the package, and you make sure it gets where it's going, no matter who's in your way."
Damian didn't answer right away. He could feel Mercer's eyes on him, weighing him like a balance sheet.
Finally, Damian said, "When?"
"Tomorrow night," Ryan said. "I'll have Mercer give you the details. Don't screw it up, Smithen. This city doesn't forgive mistakes."
Ryan left as suddenly as he'd arrived. The door clicked shut behind him.
Mercer leaned back in his chair. "Well. Looks like you're in the game now."
***
Damian walked out of Raven's into the cold night air, the music from inside still thrumming faintly in his chest. He didn't have the package yet, but he could already feel its weight. This was the first step. Whether it was up or down — that was yet to be seen.