The building known as the Iron Anvil didn't look like a place for celebration. It looked like a fortress that had decided to start serving drinks. Nestled between a clattering pipeworks and a soot-stained brick warehouse, its exterior was forged from heavy, riveted iron plates, stained dark with decades of grime and rust. A single, massive gear, three meters across, was mounted where a sign should be, its teeth frozen mid-rotation. Faint, warm light and the low thrum of machinery bled from behind its one small, reinforced window, crossed with iron bars. The only indication of its purpose was a heavy oak door, scarred and dented but standing open, emitting a haze of smoke and the murmur of low voices.
Pyotr, with the enthusiasm of a man returning to his second home, strode through the doorway, practically dragging a reluctant Amir behind him.
Inside, the atmosphere was a physical weight. The air was thick with the scent of cheap coal-smoke, spilled ale, and the sharp, oily tang of steam and ozone. The light came from flickering gas-jets and a few buzzing Aether-lamps, casting a dim, orange glow over a scene of controlled chaos. The clientele was a gallery of the industrial and the arcane. Hulking men with mechanical arms drank alongside robed figures who muttered over glowing crystals. In a corner, a group played cards, one of them tapping the table with a metallic claw. The bar itself was a single, massive slab of scarred and stained ironwood, behind which a grizzled bartender polished a glass with a rag that looked just as dirty.
Pyotr's eyes, sharp as a hawk's, instantly scanned the room and landed on a woman sitting alone at a corner table. She had fiery red hair and an elegant, if worn, green dress, sipping a dark liquid from a crystal glass.
"See her?" Pyotr elbowed Amir, a predatory grin spreading across his face. "I am definitely making her mine tonight."
Amir's internal monologue was a sigh of despair. Oh, great. He's not just a pervert, he's a mission-oriented pervert. He's really going to make me watch this.
Before he could formulate an escape plan, Pyotr dragged him to the bar, slapping the counter to get the bartender's attention. "Rum. The good stuff. None of that paint-thinner you serve the Cog-Watchers." He then turned to Amir. "Hmm, what would you like? You're new, maybe something light. A whiskey? Seems good for a first timer."
Amir's mind short-circuited. Whiskey? They have whiskey here? What the hell is this world?
"No," Amir said, his voice firm. "I don't need any drink."
Pyotr gave him a hearty, bone-jarring pat on the back. "Hey, you need to drink! You are a man now! You fight creatures way beyond comprehension! You've earned this!"
"But still," Amir insisted, feeling the eyes of the room on them, "I would like a glass of water."
Pyotr threw his head back and laughed, a loud, booming sound that cut through the bar's murmur. "Just water? For the man who has nearly stared death in the face?" His laughter echoed, drawing the gaze of every patron. The card players paused their game. The man with the mechanical arm stopped tapping, his silent, judging gaze joining the others. The red-haired woman glanced over, a faint, amused smirk on her lips.
Amir felt a cold prickle on his neck. It wasn't just embarrassment. It was a feeling of being seen, of being assessed by something far more dangerous than Pyotr's social ineptitude. The weight of their collective gaze felt heavy, intentional.
The bartender slid a grimy tumbler of amber rum to Pyotr and a surprisingly clean glass of water to Amir. Pyotr snatched his drink and, without a second's hesitation, threw it back, gulping it down in one long, practiced swallow.
The third mug of rum vanished down Pyotr's throat as Amir finally finished his first glass of water. A single, persistent thought echoed in Amir's mind: This old geezer drinks more than a whole brewery of alcoholics, and I'm struggling with water. And I still can't shake this feeling… we're being watched. How is he so oblivious?
His eyes kept darting toward the robed figures in the corner. Suddenly, one was just there, standing at the bar. Amir hadn't seen him move. His footsteps had been silent as a feather.
"A glass of rum," the robed man rasped.
When did he get so close? Amir's mind raced, a cold dread seeping into his gut.
The robed man didn't look at him, but spoke again, his voice a low, familiar venom that made Amir's blood freeze. "Hmm. You got new friends, I see."
"Sorry, what?" Amir stammered. That VOICE. No. It can't be.
The robed man turned his head slightly, the shadow of his hood obscuring his face but not the hatred in his tone. "It's a shame you got the habit of leaving your friends to die while you keep running from the inevitable fate. I'm sorry to say, but that running session stops here."
In the blink of an eye, a blade was a hair's breadth from Amir's neck. He hadn't even seen it drawn.
But another hand was faster. Pyotr's left hand, clad in a worn leather glove, closed around the blade, stopping it dead. Casually, with his other hand, he took a final sip of his rum. "It's a bold move," Pyotr said, his voice calm and dangerously sober. "For a criminal like you. Don't you think, Aggresus?"
The robed man smirked, throwing off his hood to reveal the scarred, merciless face of Amir's personal nightmare. "You knew I was here from the beginning, didn't you?" Aggresus threw the robe aside and backed away, assessing the situation. "I came for the man beside you."
Pyotr raised an eyebrow. "Who?" He glanced at Amir. "The new rookie? May I know the reasons?"
"Not necessary," Aggresus replied, his eyes locked on Amir. "Because he is about to die. Now."
Pyotr sighed, as if dealing with a stubborn child. "I don't think so." He looked at Amir, his expression turning serious for the first time. "It would be better if you ran, brother. Don't worry. We'll have our fun another day."
Amir didn't need to be told twice. He turned and bolted for the door.
Aggresus moved like lightning, a blur aiming to intercept Amir's path. But Pyotr was already in motion. From within his long white coat, he drew his signature weapon—a Reinforced Umbrella, the "Iron Parasol." Its shaft was polished steel, and its canopy, when open, was woven with interlocking, razor-sharp monofilament wires. He didn't open it. He used it like a staff, parrying Aggresus's blade with a shower of sparks.
CLANG!
The force of the impact vibrated through the bar. Aggresus was forced back, his eyes narrowing. "Ooooof," he hissed. "You Harmonic Inquisition members are a pain."
(POV: Amir)
Amir didn't look back. He heard the symphony of destruction erupt behind him—the shatter of glass, the crunch of splintering wood, the metallic shrieks of Pyotr's umbrella meeting Aggresus's sword. He burst out of the Iron Anvil and into the grimy, fog-choked alley, his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest.
Okay, okay. A landline. I need to find a public landline, call the Captain, get backup for Pyotr—
He rounded a corner at a full sprint and slammed hard into a figure, stumbling back.
"I'm so sorry, ma'am!" he gasped, regaining his balance.
The figure, a woman in a dark, elegant robe, didn't stumble. A smooth, pale hand reached out and seductively brushed his chest, steadying him. "There is no need for apologies," a voice, hypnotic and laced with dark promise, purred from the shadows of her hood. "Not for a gentleman like you."
Another, younger robed woman rushed up from behind her. She peered at Amir's face and her eyes went wide with recognition. She screamed, pointing a trembling finger. "MADAM ELIZA! THAT'S HIM! HE IS THE MAN YOU'RE LOOKING FOR!"
Amir's confusion vanished, replaced by pure, cold alertness. Eliza.
Madam Eliza's hood tilted. He couldn't see her face, but he could feel her eyes gleaming with predatory mischief. "Is that so?" she whispered.
In the blink of an eye, her seductive hand became a weapon. A stiletto dagger, previously hidden, shot straight for his heart.
But it passed through empty air. Amir had already thrown himself backward, simultaneously casting an illusion of himself standing still, taking the hit.
Madam Eliza laughed, a melodic, chilling sound that danced on the edge of madness. "You became a Tuner, too? In such a short time? I wonder what pathetic god chose you." She lunged again, a whirlwind of dark robes and lethal intent.
Amir dodged, again relying on a last-second illusion to misdirect her swipe. He was panting, his mind screaming. He had no weapon, no plan. Only deception.
She paused, tilting her head again, analyzing him. "The Gear of the Veiled Truth? Hmm. An interesting choice."
Then she moved, and this time, she was not playing. Her speed was incomprehensible. An invisible force, like a giant hand, slammed into Amir's chest, lifting him off his feet and hurling him against the brick wall of the alley. The impact drove the air from his lungs. He slid to the ground, vision swimming.
He looked up, gasping for breath he couldn't find. Madam Eliza stood over him, the stiletto back in her hand. She slowly lifted her hood, revealing a face of cold, venomous beauty and a smile that promised an eternity of suffering.
"The veil is torn, little pawn," she cooed, raising the dagger high. "Let's see what truth lies beneath."
The dagger plunged down.