The crowd parts for no one in the Black Market. Carnivores slink between shadows, their eyes glazed with want. Meat glistens beneath the heat lamps, barely concealing the truth of where it came from.

Beneath the cacophony of murmured deals and muffled sobs lies a quieter corner—an alley where neon lights sputter and signs hang crooked on rusted chains. The smell here is different. Clean. Sterile.

A figure stands just outside a reinforced steel door, tall and broad-shouldered, exhaling softly through his nose. He twirls a bamboo stalk in slow, practiced arcs, the motion hypnotic in the gloom.

“You know,” he says without looking up, “most folks don’t make it this far into the Market unless they’re buying or bleeding.”

His head lifts.

“You don’t look like either… yet.”

The bamboo stops mid-spin, held still between strong fingers.

“You think you’re in control. That you’re here by choice. But this place? It eats choice. It chews it up and spits it out, and if you’re not careful, you’ll be next.”

The door behind him creaks open. The air that escapes smells like disinfectant and something else—darker, older.

“Time for a check-up.” He said gesturing to the door with the bamboo.