The underhive never sleeps, but it sure as hell dreams—feverish, rotten dreams full of rust and hunger. Rask "Rotfang" Drayle stalked through the maze of corroded walkways and leaking pipework, his boots crunching over shattered plasteel and bones too old to matter. The air was thick with the stink of sump gas, sweat, and something worse.

His “apartment”—if you could call a half-collapsed hab-shell that—was still two levels up, past the slag pits and the old chem tanks. He kept one hand near his stubber, his fingers tapping the grip like a hive rat testing the air for predators. There was always someone looking to cut a man’s throat down here, especially if they thought you had something worth taking.

The glow of a flickering lumen-strip cast long, jagged shadows as he stepped through a narrow alley between two crumbling structures. Voices—low, urgent—drifted from the darkness. Gangers. He stopped, pressing himself into the shadows, listening.

“…said he had creds. Guilder creds.”

“Then why ain’t we cuttin’ him open right now?”

A chuckle. “Because we wait for him to get comfy first. Let him think he’s safe.”

Rask smirked, baring his jagged teeth. Poor bastards. They thought they were hunting. They didn’t know they were the prey.

He slipped his cleaver free, its rusted edge glinting in the sickly underhive light.

Tonight was going to be messy.