The crowd spilled out of the colosseum in waves, chatter echoing through the streets.

Noah moved with them at first, hands in his pockets.

The fights had ended with the usual cheers, bloodied fighters carried out like trophies, and money exchanging hands faster than water through a sieve.

But he'd found nothing. No suspicious glances, no strange rituals, no shadowy figures slipping away.

Just the usual brutality of men who lived for spectacle.

Noah peeled off from the throng, turning down quieter streets.

The further he walked, the more the shine of the capital faded.

Cracked cobblestones. Lamps flickering with failing enchantments.

The perfume of the wealthier quarters gave way to sour ale and stale bread. Here, the city seemed to sag under some kind of depressing atmosphere.

He wandered without hurry, taking it all in, until a crooked sign swinging on rusted chains caught his eye. A bar, tucked between leaning brick buildings.

Perfect.

He pushed open the door. The hinges groaned, drawing eyes his way.

A handful of drinkers looked up from their mugs, pausing mid-sip. The place reeked of sweat, spilled liquor, and unwashed bodies. A haze of pipe smoke hung near the ceiling.

Noah met their stares once, then dismissed them, walking to the counter.

The barkeep, a scarred man with tired eyes, raised a brow.

"Whiskey," Noah said flatly.

The glass arrived with a clink. Noah lifted it, rolling the amber liquid in his palm.

He took a slow sip, feeling the burn travel down his throat, and settled onto a stool.

His mind drifted back to Juniper, to the broken thread he was chasing. If she had been snatched near here, who had done it? What was the Investigation Authority hiding? Surely, they couldn't be that incompetent.

The door slammed open.

Noah didn't turn at once, though the volume shift was enough to make his grip tighten around his glass. Rowdy laughter spilled in with the newcomers.

It was the thug, Bruno.

The man walked in with a swagger full of arrogance, flanked by the same lackeys who'd trailed him through the alley earlier. Their boots thudded across the warped floorboards, scattering the smoke.

"Jack!" Bruno bellowed, his grin wide and wolfish. He slapped a fist against the bar, rattling the bottles. "Get your cowardly ass out here! Enough hiding behind this rat hole. Tonight, we end it."

The room froze. A hush swept over the sparse occupants, every gaze flicking between Bruno and the shadowed doorway behind the counter.

Bruno stretched his arms wide, like a king demanding tribute. "Today we settle it. Once and for all."

"Let there be no more whispers. No more games. I'm the only king these streets need. And if Jack thinks otherwise, he can come die for it!"

His lackeys jeered, knocking mugs from tables, taunting the silent drinkers. The tension inside the bar ratcheted, everyone on edge.

Noah set his glass down, the ice clinking faintly. He turned just enough to watch, his expression unreadable.

For the first time that day, something interesting had finally arrived.

A boy bolted out the back door, feet pounding the alley stones as he vanished into the shadows.

No one stopped him. Everyone knew where he was going. Straight to Jack.

Inside, Bruno made himself comfortable.

He prowled between the tables like a beast, sweeping mugs off with careless backhands, laughing as beer splashed across boots.

His thugs followed suit, barking insults, jostling shoulders, and daring anyone to raise a hand.

The occupants, merchants, drunks, and down-on-their-luck laborers, kept their eyes down.

A man who looked up too long earned a cuff to the back of the head. Another had his plate stolen clean off his table.

"Pathetic," Bruno sneered, his voice carrying. "You drink Jack's piss-water ale, hide in his rat den, and call him your king? Some king. A man too weak to even defend his own walls."

The room stayed silent.

None of them noticed Noah, who remained in the far corner, his glass raised casually to his lips.

The thug's arrogance was so consuming that Noah was practically invisible.

Then, heavy footsteps sounded from the back hall.

The room seemed to shift as Jack appeared.

He was a tall man, broad across the shoulders, his beard streaked with gray.

His eyes burned with barely contained fury, every step radiating authority.

This was his house, his bar, his name carved into the bones of these streets, and Bruno had dared to spit on it.

"Bruno," Jack's voice was low but rough with the promise of violence. "You dare storm my establishment, break my peace, and insult me in front of my men?"

Bruno only grinned wider, striding forward with the swagger of a man who owned the ground beneath his feet.

"Finally," he drawled. "The rat shows his whiskers. Took you long enough, Jack. I was beginning to think you'd grown soft, hiding behind these broken bottles and cowards who cling to your name."

Gasps hissed through the bar. Jack's jaw tightened, his fists flexing.

"You've overstepped," Jack said. "This is my domain. And you'll pay for your disrespect."

Bruno laughed. "Pay? No, no, Jack. Tonight, we don't play at debts. Tonight, we settle this."

He spread his arms, his voice booming. "A death match. One of us walks out. The other doesn't. That's how kings are crowned."

The words hung in the smoky air, everyone staring, their hearts beating fast

Jack narrowed his eyes. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the bar on him. Bruno had passed the bar to him, and there was only one clear choice here.

He didn't know where Bruno's confidence came from. What gave this thug the gall to demand blood, but backing down was impossible.

If he refused, his reputation would crumble. And in the slums, a man without reputation was already a dead man.

So, with his fury burning through his veins, Jack straightened his back.

"Fine," he said. "One of us dies."

And so the bar erupted in shouts, the patrons scrambling back to clear space for the fight.

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