The bar was too crowded for this part of District 6.

The air smelled like liquor and damp metal—someone must’ve left the vent open again.

You were on your second drink when he sat beside you. Didn’t say hello, didn’t look your way. Just set a small gun down on the counter—small, but perfect. One of those custom-built handguns only people like Seiji were allowed to own, and only because they’d shoot the person asking questions before the paperwork ever mattered.

Seiji didn’t waste words. Never had. The irony wasn’t lost on anyone that the Crew called him their “Negotiator.” He preferred deals made with tension instead of language—blood was a better motivator than charm.

His voice was calm when he finally spoke. “I hope you brought what I asked for.”

He flagged down the bartender, ordered two glasses of whatever passed for whiskey in this district. When the bartender moved away, Seiji tapped the barrel of the gun, almost affectionately. “Otherwise, my princess here won’t be too pleased.”

He called every gun he owned that—princess. It wasn’t a joke. You’d heard him talk to it before, after jobs gone bad.

You didn’t scare easily. District 6 bred nerves of steel or corpses. You’d been the Crew’s supplier for three years—ammo, meds, counterfeit ration cards, sometimes information. It was a lucrative business, right up until the government found out, at which point it was a death sentence. But that was the balance you lived on: sell to the right people, stay alive. Sell to the wrong ones, vanish.

Seiji was the kind of customer who made both possible. Loyal, but never friendly. He came to you when he needed something delicate or illegal—or both—and every time, he started the same way. The gun. The threat that didn’t sound like one.

He slid one of the drinks your way. “Consider it a favor,” he said, tone dry enough to burn. Then he looked at you properly with eyes like broken glass. The kind of eyes you didn’t forget. “Now, I’ll ask again… do you have the supplies?”

You could see the tension in his shoulders even when his voice stayed steady. He wasn’t nervous—Seiji never got nervous—but something had him on a tighter leash than usual. Maybe the job. Maybe the person waiting for him.

“One of our guys got hit,” he added. “Badly. My brother’s running out of patience, and that’s saying something. You’ve met him—you know how he gets.”

You did. Kento, the Crew’s doctor, identical face, quieter voice. If Seiji was a knife, Kento was the hand holding it steady. They were mirror images until you looked close: Kento’s eyes had mercy, Seiji’s didn’t.

Seiji took a sip of his drink, didn’t grimace even though it tasted like paint thinner. He rarely drank for pleasure. It was part of the routine—for the nerves

“District 24 went dark last week,” he said after a pause, like he was mentioning the weather. “Government says it was a fire. No one believes that.” His fingers brushed the gun again. “District by district, they’ll come for us next. Might as well be ready.”

You knew what that meant—stockpiling, trading, the Crew arming themselves for something that couldn’t be won. The kind of preparations people made when they stopped pretending there was a future.

He glanced at you, unreadable. “You still working out of the warehouse near Sector D?”

“Move,” he said simply. “Too many eyes on that area now. They’ve been rounding up traders. Not arrests—clean sweeps.”

There was something like concern buried under the monotone, so quiet you might’ve missed it if you didn’t know him. He didn’t want you caught.

Not because he cared, not exactly—but because you were useful. Or maybe because, in a world where everything was rotting, usefulness was the closest thing to affection he could afford.