“Yo, Leon. Looks like that went smooth… where the fuck did you find that?!”

Leon marched the hooded, all-black suspect back into the rain-slick alley. Manstein started a welcome, then saw the face under the hood. His steps quickened like a hawk’s dive, his voice dropped like a blade in the rain.

“Where I found—what are you even babbling about? You high again?”

He shoved the suspect into the transport, thumbed a code, and the doors locked with a clamping thunk, like a trap’s jaws.

It wasn’t a regular cruiser. It was a special transfer rig. Outside, it looked like a delivery truck; inside, cages and restraints. The shell was high-strength nano-mesh, a beetle’s carapace—one Gauss shot wouldn’t punch it clean through.

Bringing that thing into this place was a nod to the neighborhood’s snakes’ nest.

Even now, with tech blooming like metal forests, no country had weeded out gangs for good. The Pat slums wore the government’s badge on paper, but in the shadows, two families held the leash.

They’d even had prisoners snatched back on the street. That scar still itched on the department’s face.

Leon didn’t know why the top never moved. He didn’t want to know. Some knots weren’t his to untie.

“That’s a fresh black‑market android. No serials, no files. The real kind you only pull from the underbelly.”

Manstein shouldered Leon aside, eyes signaling, voice lowered to a gutter murmur, trying to plant the weight of it in him.

“And?”

“And you really think we walk out in one piece? Leon, get your head out of the clouds. That unit costs nine figures. You think the two families let us stroll away? The Miyamoto clan from the East, the Italian Mafia—each one blotting out the sky with one hand.”

Leon stayed stubborn, stone in a stream. Manstein snapped. He fisted Leon’s collar, heat flaring up his neck, voice a hoarse thunder kept low.

That lit Leon’s fuse. He moved like a spring uncoiled, forearm braced under Manstein’s throat, pinning him to the wet wall. His other fist hammered the brick, brick dust jumping like sparks.

“Bullshit! You rot in a lab too long and forget what justice even looks like? Look at that corpse. Is that a human way to die? It’s a slaughterhouse out there. And you can stomach that?!”

Manstein wasn’t buying it. He shoved Leon back, eyes wide as storm lanterns, a finger jabbed at his own chest.

“Man, I’ve got a wife and a kid. Cut me a break! I don’t want the Mafia boxing us in halfway and my family staring at my corpse!”

Leon’s mouth opened, then shut. His rebuttal died in his throat like a match in the rain. Red crept into his eyes. He clenched both fists, swallowed words, turned away, and slammed both knuckles into the van’s side. The metal boomed like a drum in the downpour.

That was naked reality. No one sidestepped it.

Even in this future, if cops died under five percent citywide, Gotham’s rate was closer to twenty. Two tumors nested here, grown over decades. If they wanted someone dead, the city’s wind blew that way.

If not for the new psychometric system, Gotham would have sunk wholly into a gang’s dreamland.

Even so, people in the commons slept with one eye open, like birds on a wire. Only the rich quarter lay down without fear from cradle to grave.

Leon could’ve stayed in the rich quarter. He was a retired operative, prize money stacked like winter grain, enough for a quiet life. But he was used to running in storms, so he joined Gotham PD.

Once he plugged in, he saw how dark the current ran.

“What are you two big men doing, making out in the rain?”

No one knew when Natalia had wandered over, but her voice cut through like a pebble in a still pond, snapping Leon out of the memory.

“Making out my ass. Move it. You coming with us or not?”

The quip loosened the air a little. Manstein shook his head, resigned, walked toward a cruiser, and tossed a question at Natalia.

“Mm, I—”

“She’s in my car. You guys head back.”

Leon stepped in before she answered, blunt as a hammer, not caring how she took it.

“Fine, I’m out.”

“Hey, hey—what do you mean you’re out? I never said I’m riding with you!”

Manstein didn’t bite. He shut the door, rolled the window up. The others had already climbed into the transport. They waved once and rolled off, leaving Leon and a startled Natalia under a silver sheet of rain.

“Great. No ride now. Enjoy your stroll. I’m gone.”

Watching them leave, Natalia sighed, tugged up the hood of her issue jacket, and prepared to ghost off through the rain. The numbers weren’t kind—cabs in a slum like this were a one‑percent miracle. With her face, she’d more likely reel in thugs than a driver.

“Hold up. I said you’re riding with me.”

“You walked in here in shorts. You think I don’t notice?”

She skewered him without mercy. Leon only pointed at a neon sign blinking not far away, a fish of light in the dark.

“Come on. My car’s over there.”

He took the lead. Natalia hesitated half a heartbeat, then followed. Truth be told, she was a tactical android; if Leon tried anything, she’d show him what heavy fire felt like.

Leon didn’t care about her little calculations. He scrolled his phone, searching for something, rain ticking on his shoulders like rice on a drum.

They reached the neon sign.

“Boss lady. Car keys.”

Leon pushed open the door. The old wood turned and creaked, a seesaw sound that smelled of dust and whiskey, an antique bar mood. He wasn’t in the mood to savor it. That ruined body outside gnawed like a cold tooth.

Inside, Natalia realized the sign lied. The plaque said XX Nightclub, but the place was a small bar, tight as a palm. Behind the counter, a mature blonde in a fitted dress polished a glass till it gleamed like a small moon.

Over the bar hung old wooden fans, relics spanning centuries. Hand tools for mixing lined the shelf. The stools and chairs wore vintage wood grain like rings of age. Natalia, a child of the new century, stared, curiosity blooming like a flower in frost.

And none of it was a hologram.

Usually relics like this lived in projection. Seeing them in the flesh lit her up. Her annoyance with Leon thinned like fog.

Leon walked in. The blonde didn’t even glance, like they had a ritual. She set down the glass, bent to rummage beneath the counter.

Leon slid onto a stool, nudged the glass back.

“A pint of beer. Lemon Storm for the newbie.”

“I never said I wanted a drink.”

Natalia peeled off her jacket and hung it on the rack. Her soaked tank traced her lines in clean ink. She frowned at the fabric and sighed, a small cloud.

She was a tactical android, but assigned to the precinct, she didn’t get the high-end nano rainproofing. She wasn’t like those premium service models who walked through rain bone-dry. It wasn’t envy—just the itch to keep score, machine to machine.

“One sec… here’s the key. Leon, what’s with the mood tonight? Bringing a little girlfriend?”

The blonde set a key on the bar, smiled, poured Leon a brimming pint. Then she opened a wooden cabinet up top, pulled a clear unlabeled bottle, and started building Natalia’s drink.

“Hell no. This perv dragged me here.”

Natalia shot Leon a nervous, irritated look. That “girlfriend” jab hit something. Her big eyes blinked like lit windows—nothing like a tactical unit, more like a bright, restless teen. If Leon hadn’t seen her in action, he might’ve been fooled.

Her look gave him a headache. He reached for a cigarette, hand half out, then froze and let it drop, a rueful smile crooking. The proprietress liked to stir a pot; he wasn’t going to give her smoke to stir. A woman who could run a bar in this tangle and keep ties with every gray outfit? She didn’t just watch the storm; she charted it. He’d met her by chance, but she’d become a partner he could trust.

“Got any intel, Boss?”

“Hold up… what are we talking, the murder?”

She slid a glass that looked like orange juice to Natalia, wiped her hands, and fished a tiny notepad from under the counter. It was scribbled with numbers, dense as ants. Even Natalia couldn’t decode it at a glance.

“Yeah. The one that looked like a slaughterhouse. Also the black‑market android and any smuggling manifests.”

Leon’s tone was sour. Even a veteran who’d seen bodies like storm-wrecked trees had to swallow hard after that scene. On a battlefield, torn limbs were the weather. Here, one person’s hate had to run black as tar to do that to another.

How do you carve a fellow human like cattle? Leon couldn’t make sense of it.

“The slaughterhouse one’s thin. They didn’t find anything fun. But the black‑market android and the manifests—take these. The threads should knot tight.”

She set a file on the counter, then measured spirits into a shaker for herself. Today’s filth clung to the air. She’d spent years in the slums and never seen a mind that twisted.

Watching their easy trade of intel, Natalia’s eyes cleared with sudden understanding. Leon cut her a look.

“What did you think I brought you for, a joyride to pick up girls?”

The line hit like a slap. Natalia flushed, then shoved Leon. Even a veteran felt that tactical shove—he slid sideways on the stool, boots skidding with a soft squeak. Tactical androids looked human, but the bodies inside weren’t.

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean—”

The proprietress covered her mouth and laughed, her chest rising like waves in a light wind. For many men, that was a feast. Leon had no appetite. He coughed, then knocked back a gulp of beer, letting the cold wash the heat off his tongue.

“You two get along pretty well.”

“Say what?!”

“As if…”

Her quick flare and his shrug made a neat mirror, which only widened the proprietress’s smile. She stopped shaking. Bright yellow liquor flowed over layered ice, merging with gentler spirits, and a sharp citrus sting rose like a spark.

“For the newbie. This doesn’t count as bribing an officer, right?”