Chapter 2: Chapter 2, The Rusted Halo

The air in Lost Angeles smelled of spilled ale, cheap incense, and the distant scent of burning garbage. The city—if it could even be called that—was a rotting corpse of the old world, draped in medieval pretensions and neon magic. Buildings stitched together with stone, salvaged steel, and forgotten technology loomed over cracked streets where torchlight flickered against the glow of repurposed holo-signs.

Inside The Rusted Halo, one of the city’s less fatal bars, the ceiling dripped with condensation, the walls were scarred by old knife fights, and the only thing keeping the floor together was sheer force of will. The place reeked of desperation and regret, perfect for a mercenary crew who had just thoroughly fucked up a job.

Ciel leaned back in her chair, feet kicked up onto the table, golden-violet eyes half-lidded, spinning a worn playing card between her fingers. The deck in play was old-world relic nonsense, the kind of gambling set scavenged from an era long dead. They called it Ghost’s Gambit, and no one really knew the rules, it changed from city to city, bar to bar. The deck itself was a mess of ancient tarot cards, numbered glyphs, and holographic images of things that no one remembered. Some said the game had once been played by the wealthy before the Collapse, others claimed it was a lingering spell disguised as a card game, warping fate in subtle ways.

Didn’t matter. Ciel just liked winning.

Across from her, Raze scowled at his hand like it had personally offended him, his broad, scarred fingers tapping against the tabletop in a slow, considering rhythm. The ex-military bastard always acted like he could strategize his way through anything, but luck wasn’t something he could fight his way out of. His storm-gray eyes flicked up to meet Ciel’s, full of irritation and a reluctant respect.

“You’re cheating.”

Ciel gave him a slow, shit-eating grin, the kind that made people want to punch her and kiss her in equal measure.

“If I was cheating, you’d already be dead,” she drawled, flicking her card onto the table.

Gorrug let out a deep, rumbling laugh, the kind that made mugs shake on the wooden surface. The orc had been drinking straight from a barrel-sized tankard, and his massive green hands cradled the thing like it was a delicate teacup. Golden eyes gleamed with amusement, his huge tusks catching the dim candlelight.

“She’s got you there, old man,” Gorrug boomed, downing another gulp before slamming the cup down with earthquake force. His moss-colored muscles flexed as he stretched, cracking his knuckles like thunder.

Raze sighed, muttering something under his breath about "insufferable little brats" as he tossed another worn metal coin into the pot. They were gambling with scraps of different currencies, a mix of ancient-world dollars, enchanted tokens, and gold coins stamped with the faces of long-dead kings. In Lost Angeles, money was as fluid as history itself, it changed hands, changed value, changed meaning, but it was always owed to someone dangerous.

Across the table, Sylva sat directly on it, cross-legged, completely unbothered by the game. She was barefoot as always, her dusky midnight-blue skin faintly illuminated by the flickering lanterns. A single silver braid rested over her shoulder, a contrast to the wild curtain of moonlit hair flowing down her back. She twirled a dagger in one hand, her crimson eyes half-lidded in boredom.

“I don’t know why we’re wasting time,” she murmured, voice like velvet laced with poison. “We should be figuring out how to tell our informant we botched his job instead of pretending any of you are good at cards.”

“We’re not pretending,” Veyra cut in, already half-drunk, leaning lazily against the back of her chair. The half-elf sniper had a bottle in one hand, her other hand lazily shuffling her own deck, even as her emerald-green eyes gleamed with sharp amusement. Her dark auburn hair was an unruly mess, and her tanned skin was decorated with old scars and fresh bruises from their last job. “We’re just waiting until we’re drunk enough to fight our way out of the mess we’re in.”

Miri giggled, swinging her pale legs beneath the table, the gothic little witch looking eerily pleased despite everything. Dark robes pooled around her chair, her violet hair framing pitch-black eyes swirling with silver mist. She rested her chin in her hands, mismatched skull earrings swaying with the motion.

“Oh, we’re definitely going to have to fight,” she chirped, voice sickly sweet. “I bet he’s already got people looking for us.”

Raze groaned and ran a scarred hand down his face, clearly questioning all of his life decisions.

“We’re probably the biggest fuck ups he’s hired,” he muttered.

Ciel tossed another card onto the table, utterly unfazed.

“Nah,” she said lazily. “We’re just the most fun.”

Sylva rolled her eyes, finally glancing at her, the faintest ghost of a smirk on her lips. “You have a death wish, you know that?”

Ciel winked at her. “You keep saying that, but I’m still here.”

For now.

Raze sighed and took a long drag from his cigar, exhaling a slow, heavy cloud of smoke that curled lazily in the dim, flickering candlelight. His storm-gray eyes cut across the table, surveying his crew—the worst collection of idiots he’d ever thrown in with—and grunted.

“This was a mistake.”

Veyra snorted, already halfway through another bottle, boots kicked up onto the edge of the table. “That’s rich, coming from you. Pretty sure we all thought we had this in the bag.” She winked, swirling her drink. “Turns out, we just had our heads up our own asses.”

Miri giggled in that unsettlingly cheerful, goth-witch way, propping her chin up on her hands. “I knew things were going to go wrong,” she said, pitch-black eyes swirling with silver mist. “I just didn’t say anything because it was more fun to watch it happen.”

Raze groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hate you all.”

Ciel, utterly unbothered, shuffled the deck lazily between her fingers, golden-violet eyes glimmering with amusement. “C’mon, old man. It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was a disaster.”

“We’re still alive, aren’t we?”

“For now,” Sylva muttered from her spot on the table, legs tucked neatly under her, idly twirling a dagger between her fingers. Her crimson eyes flicked up, sharp and unimpressed. “And only because we haven’t actually told Grimm yet.”

A tense silence settled over the table for a moment, the reality of their situation crashing over them like a slow-burning wildfire.

Grimm.

One of the biggest gang leaders in Lost Angeles. A man who owned a quarter of the underworld, held ties to every illegal deal that went down in the city, and had a reputation for only hiring professionals, people who could get the job done with perfection, no excuses, no failures.

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And they?

They had spent months building rapport to even get an offer from him. Months of dirty jobs, calculated risks, and proving they were worth the gamble. Getting a job directly from Grimm was a mark of trust, a high-risk, high-reward deal that only the best got invited to.

Which made what had happened even worse.

Ciel stretched, arching her back slightly, then threw down another card. “So what if the job was a little fucked from the start?”

Raze gritted his teeth. “It was a vault job. Break in, steal the contents, get out. We spent months working toward that.” He leaned forward, voice dropping into a low growl. “And not only do we have nothing to bring back to Grimm, the contents of the vault are gone.”

Gorrug, who had been sipping from his enormous tankard, let out a deep-bellied laugh. “It was a glorious battle!”

Veyra groaned, tipping her head back. “Oh for fuck’s sake, Gorrug.”

The orc grinned proudly, golden eyes burning with that all-too-familiar battle frenzy. “You must admit! Once the alarms went off, the fighting was spectacular!”

“Yeah, because you wouldn’t stop killing people, you giant idiot.” Sylva shot him an icy glare, her dagger spinning dangerously between her fingers. “We were supposed to be in and out, unnoticed. Instead, you got trigger-happy the second we encountered resistance.”

Gorrug huffed, crossing his massive arms over his broad chest. “I was controlling myself!”

Ciel smirked, tilting her head toward him. “Oh yeah? Because I remember a certain orc roaring like a madman and nearly caving in the entire entranceway with his warhammer.”

Gorrug frowned. “That was an accident.”

Veyra pointed at him with her drink. “No, it was excitement. There’s a difference.”

“Details,” Gorrug grumbled.

Raze growled and took another long drag from his cigar. “Ciel got us caught first, though.”

The table turned to her, and Ciel raised her hands, mock-offended. “Hey! That wasn’t my fault. How was I supposed to know the place had fucking soul binding magic?”

“You were supposed to check!” Sylva hissed, glaring at her.

Ciel’s grin sharpened, her golden-violet gaze lazily dragging over Sylva’s form in a way that was deliberate, teasing, and just enough to set her off. “You know, you get even cuter when you’re pissed off.”

Sylva’s crimson eyes darkened, her grip tightening on her dagger. “Do you have a death wish from me as well?”

Ciel winked. “Always.”

Raze massaged his temples like he was getting a headache.

Veyra snorted into her drink. “This is why we’re going to die.”

Miri sighed dreamily, playing with the silver chains wrapped around her wrists. “I think it’s romantic. A last stand against impossible odds.”

Raze pointed at her. “That. That right there. That’s exactly why we’re fucked.”

The table went silent again, but this time, it was heavier.

They knew it.

They all knew it.

There was no running from this. They couldn’t hide from Grimm. If they tried, he’d find them. He had eyes everywhere, influence stretching across Lost Angeles like a shadow no one could escape from.

Which meant they had two choices.

Walk in and face him head-on.

Or go down fighting.

The table remained still, save for the flickering of candlelight, the soft sound of a dagger spinning against the wood, and the distant murmur of the bar patrons around them.

Ciel stretched her arms over her head, her cropped top riding just enough to show the toned curve of her waist, and exhaled like she had just woken up from a satisfying nap instead of committing career suicide. She threw a lazy grin at the table.

“Well, at least it won’t be boring.”

Sylva rolled her crimson eyes, flicking her silver braid over her shoulder as she slid gracefully off the table, her bare feet landing soundlessly on the warped wooden floor. “That’s your takeaway from this?”

Ciel smirked. “I like to focus on the positives.”

Raze snorted as he stood, his broad shoulders cracking as he rolled them back. “There aren’t any positives.” He flicked what remained of his cigar into the ashtray, storm-gray eyes settling on the door. “Let’s get this over with.”

Gorrug stretched, his massive arms flexing as he cracked his knuckles, his tusks catching the low glow of the lanterns. “Grimm may be powerful, but he is still just a man.” His deep, rumbling voice carried the weight of an avalanche. “If it comes to battle, we will crush him like the others.”

Veyra slung her rifle over her shoulder, her emerald-green eyes gleaming as she lazily twirled a throwing knife between her fingers. “Yeah, yeah, big guy. Let’s just try and make it a fair fight this time. You know, before you bring half the fucking city down on us again.”

Miri clapped her hands together, the silver chains wrapped around her wrists jingling like chimes. “Ooooh, I do hope we get to fight! But if not, I can at least hex someone on the way out. Maybe turn them into a frog. That’d be cute.”

Raze groaned. “I need a new line of work.”

They stepped out of The Rusted Halo, and into the breathing, pulsing, chaotic veins of Lost Angeles.

Lost Angeles wasn’t like other cities. Hell, it barely deserved to be called one. It was a stitched-together corpse of the old world, built on the bones of a time no one remembered clearly. Towers of cracked stone and shattered glass loomed above streets made of scavenged metal and repurposed neon panels, flickering in colors that no longer had names.

Magic and technology weren’t just mixed here. They were tangled into a bastardized, chaotic mess.

At street level, cobbled roads met rusted-out cars that had long since been converted into market stalls, their skeletons covered in tattered silks, neon runes, and old-world relics being sold as magical artifacts. Bridges made from repurposed steel beams and wooden planks stretched between crumbling high-rises, forming an entire second layer of city above the streets, where thieves and rooftop runners skittered like rats in a jungle of broken steel.

Beneath them, storm drains glowed faintly with runoff from alchemical spills, and the sewers? No one went down there unless they wanted to find out how fast their bones could be picked clean.

The people of Lost Angeles were just as mismatched as the city. Merchants in patchwork robes and cybernetic limbs peddled their wares to cloaked figures with glowing eyes. Bounty hunters leaned against crumbling brick walls, scanning the crowd for poor bastards with debt they couldn’t pay. Mutants, mages, and mercenaries walked side by side, some armored in gleaming enchanted steel, others wrapped in robes marked with glyphs that pulsed like breathing embers.

There were street preachers, shouting half-remembered fragments of dead religions and tech manuals like scripture. One of them—an old woman with cybernetic eyes and a rusted mechanical halo screwed into her skull—was chanting about the Great Algorithm, the Divine Code that once ruled mankind before the Fall.

Ciel strolled through it all like she owned the place, hands hooked into her belt loops, golden-violet eyes sweeping over the crowds with an easy, knowing smirk.

Sylva, beside her, moved like a shadow, her feet silent against the pavement, her silver hair catching the neon glow.

Raze stayed just behind them, shoulders tense, watching every alleyway with the sharp eyes of a man who knew how quickly a city like this could turn on you.

Gorrug grinned as he walked, massive and unbothered, the crowd parting around him instinctively, some out of fear, others because he simply would not move for them.

Veyra pulled her flask from her belt and took a swig, sighing as she tucked it away. “You know,” she said, stretching. “This might actually be the first time I go into a meeting mostly sober.”

“That’s a terrible idea,” Ciel mused.

“I know,” Veyra sighed. “But I ran out of booze back at the bar, so here we are.”

Miri skipped slightly ahead, her dark robes fluttering like ink in water, her silver eyes glowing faintly. “Does anyone else feel it?”

“Feel what?” Raze frowned.

She turned back, smiling. “The weight of fate pressing in.”

Ciel snorted. “That’s just you being dramatic again.”

“Or,” Miri countered, “it’s the fact that Grimm’s men are already watching us.”

They all felt it at the same time—that prickle on the back of the neck, the shift in the air when you were being watched.

At first, it was just figures in the shadows, a few too many people loitering on rooftops, the way some merchants seemed to be talking into whisper-stones embedded in their sleeves.

Then, they saw them.

Men in dark coats, adorned with Grimm’s sigil—a blackened fang wrapped in gold chains. They didn’t stop the group, just watched from street corners, from doorways, from market stalls.

Gorrug cracked his knuckles.

Sylva sighed. “Well, they know we’re here.”

“They probably knew before we even left the bar,” Raze muttered.

Ciel grinned, tapping her fingers on her holster, excitement sparking beneath her skin. Anticipation. Chaos. Possibility.

She loved this part. The moment before the storm hit, before words turned to weapons, before everything fell apart.

She turned to her crew, eyes bright beneath the neon haze of Lost Angeles.

“So,” she said, smirking. “We walking in with our heads high? Or are we about to make this interesting?”

Sylva’s crimson gaze lingered on her for a beat too long, before she exhaled and rolled her shoulders.

“Sometimes I don’t know what do with you,” she muttered.

Ciel grinned. “And yet, you still put up with me.”

Raze groaned. “For now.”

They moved forward, weaving through the glowing, rusting, breathing corpse of a city, toward Grimm’s den—where, one way or another, the night would end in blood or crippling debt.