The familiar silhouette of steel frames wavered through the heat haze, rising like a mirage in the distance.
It was a corner of the Factory District—Cordeaux’s "Parts Shop." Even though it was the middle of the day, the neon sign flickered with an unstable, dying rhythm.
...Not planning on fixing that?
I bypassed the office and drove straight toward the factory itself.
The gate stood wide open, but at the guardhouse by the entrance, two tough-looking men stood watch with rifles. They seemed unusually high-strung.
The crunch of gravel under the Road Stella’s tires drew their gaze instantly. The engine gave a low, predatory growl as I pulled in.
Noticing the commotion, a third man who had been sitting in the shadows of the booth kicked back his chair and scrambled toward the car.
"Sir! Glad you're here!"
The young man spoke with a humble tone, sweat beading on his forehead. He jerked his chin at the man behind him, who immediately turned and bolted toward the office. He was likely running to alert Cordeaux.
"Cordeaux called me. Can I head in?" I asked.
The young man nodded firmly and signaled to the two riflemen. They broke their stare and returned to surveying the surrounding area.
"Yes! Of course, it’s no problem! Booth 3 is open right now, please head over there!"
As he spoke, he pressed his hand to his intercom, murmuring a hurried report. The air was thick with unease. Something had definitely happened.
Following his gesture to proceed, I gave the accelerator a light tap. The Road Stella’s tires crunched over the gravel again as I glided slowly into the premises.
The interior of the factory echoed with the intermittent glare of welding torches and the screech of metal on metal. Despite the heightened security, they seemed to be trying to maintain a facade of business as usual. As a custom shop catering to the city's gangs, several vehicles were up on lifts, surrounded by mechanics covered in oil and grime.
Fluorescent lights hummed and flickered overhead, the air a sharp cocktail of ozone and machine oil. I scanned the area as I pulled up in front of the bay marked with a giant "3."
A team of mechanics was already waiting. They used exaggerated hand signals to guide the car into position. When I finally cut the engine, the sudden silence in the garage felt heavy—almost oppressive.
"Alright."
I opened the door and stepped out. The heat radiating from the engine and the metallic scent of iron filings clung to my skin.
Looking up, the mechanics gave me quick waves.
"Sir!" "Good to see you!"
They tried to act natural, but I could see the stiffness in their shoulders. They were on edge.
My gaze drifted toward the back of the factory, toward the iron staircase leading to the office block. Standing at the top, looking down at me through a cloud of cigar smoke, was the man himself.
Cordeaux watched me, his expression uncharacteristically grim.
＊ ＊ ＊
The moment I pushed open the office door, the acrid scent of char hit my nose.
It was the distinct lingering smell that follows a violent rampage—the scent of iron, oil, and a trace of gunpowder.
...They really did a number on this place.
Shards of glass crunched under my boots as I stepped further into the room. Everything was a wreck. This wasn't the work of common thieves looking for loot; this was chaotic, senseless destruction.
Sections of the wall had been blown out, leaving decorative panels dangling like strips of dead skin. Bullet holes peppered every surface, and severed wiring sparked rhythmically where it hung from the ceiling. A pile of battered, blackened containers sat in the corner, the burn marks still fresh.
The few surviving ceiling lights flickered erratically, casting long, wavering shadows across the dim room. It looked like they’d done a quick sweep of the floor, but they hadn't been able to scrub away the bloodstains or the deep gouges where bullets had ricocheted.
It was recent. Last night, or early this morning at the latest.
"Sir, glad you made it!"
"Sorry, Boss, we haven't finished cleaning up yet!"
Young subordinates hurried past me, bowing their heads while hauling debris and supplies. Their voices were tight with tension. Their faces told the whole story: something had gone terribly wrong.
I kept walking, heading for the inner sanctum—Cordeaux’s private office.
As soon as I stepped off the elevator, the atmosphere changed. It was far too quiet. The hallway, which was usually crawling with guards, was almost deserted.
The few guards I did see were wrapped in bandages. Repair Patches were stuck to their arms, necks, and foreheads, emitting soft electronic chirps every time they moved. This was undeniably the aftermath of a firefight.
A familiar guard standing by the door shifted uncomfortably and gave me a nod. His movements were jerky—it looked like his drive system had taken a hit. The left side of his face was a mess of burns, and the glint of chrome peeked through from beneath his artificial skin. He was clearly in the middle of a regeneration cycle.
The wall behind him was scarred with close-range bullet impacts.
The fact that they’d been attacked was a certainty now. What bothered me was the state of the exterior. The gate and the garage hadn't looked nearly this bad. Had the attackers been invited in? Was it an inside job? Or...
I let the questions swirl in my head. I’d get the answers from Cordeaux.
The guard knocked and announced my arrival. The electronic lock clicked, and the door slid open slowly.
"Go ahead."
"Yeah."
The interior of his office was just as trashed as the rest of the building. Documents were strewn everywhere, and broken bottles littered the floor. There were scorch marks on the edge of the desk, and the air still held the cloying scent of fire suppressant and tobacco.
And there, standing at the back of the room, was the man.
"Yo. Sorry to drag you out here so soon after yesterday."
Cordeaux.
His massive silhouette loomed, swallowing half the room in shadow. He was wearing his usual grin, but something was fundamentally wrong.
His left leg was gone from the knee down.
A crude, temporary prosthetic hit the floor with a hollow metallic clunk. It was a rush job; the interface cables at the stump were still exposed and messy.
"...You really got hit hard," I said.
Cordeaux shrugged, his grin widening, though it didn't reach his eyes.
"Yeah. They got me. Before I knew what was happening, I ended up like this."
His tone was casual, but deep in his eyes, a cold, predatory anger was smoldering.