After a long journey, we finally stopped in front of a decrepit tavern, its wooden walls rotting from years of neglect. A rusted sign, barely clinging to the door frame, swayed gently in the cold wind. The faded letters read:
"The Abyss."
"Wow… this place hasn't been burned down yet?" Tink muttered, his voice tinged with surprise and nostalgia.
I swept my gaze across the gray, weathered planks and the moss-covered rooftop. The building seemed like a relic from a long-forgotten era, standing defiantly against time itself.
But as I stepped inside, all expectations shattered.
Contrary to its decayed exterior, the interior of The Abyss was alive—a pulsating underworld drenched in flashing red and purple lights. The air was thick with the acrid scent of cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey, mingling with the stench of unwashed bodies. The bass of the music throbbed in my chest, nearly drowning out the raucous laughter and heated arguments. Shadows moved restlessly—some drunkenly slumped over tables, others locked in high-stakes bets that could end in either fortune or a knife to the throat.
Near the entrance of the main floor, two masked guards stood rigid. Their black leather armor gleamed under the dim lighting, light machine guns held at the ready. An unspoken warning radiated from their presence—no one gets in without permission.
"Where the hell are we going?" I murmured, an uneasy feeling creeping up my spine.
"You'll find out soon enough." Tink's tone was casual, but his sharp eyes never stopped scanning the crowd. "First, we need to find old man Moskov."
He strode toward one of the guards, leaned in, and whispered something. I tried to listen, but the pounding music devoured his words. A password?
Before I could process it, the guard gave a small nod and gestured toward a heavy steel door. A metallic click echoed as the lock disengaged.
Tink wasted no time. Without warning, he grabbed me and stepped inside.
The door slammed shut behind us.
The world changed.
If the tavern above was filth, then this place was purgatory.
Dim, blood-red lanterns cast long, flickering shadows over damp stone floors. The walls, slick with moisture, seemed to breathe with the weight of a thousand whispered sins. Round tables were scattered across the vast chamber, each surrounded by desperate souls hunched over stained playing cards or bone dice. The air was thick with murmured bets, some laced with excitement, others with quiet despair.
Every so often, a sudden outburst—either a triumphant roar or an enraged snarl—would punctuate the low hum of vice. Across the room, a bloated man with cold, owl-like eyes pulled two girls onto his lap, his laughter thick with arrogance as another round of gambling ended in his favor.
A few feet away, I spotted a woman with tangled hair and hollow eyes. She sat lifelessly beside a customer, staring into her untouched drink. Her makeup, though carefully applied, failed to conceal the exhaustion etched into her face. Another trapped soul, caught in an endless cycle of misery.
Tink moved through the chaos with practiced indifference, ignoring the stench of sweat, blood, and death that clung to the air.
But I could feel them—eyes. Watching. Calculating. Some filled with curiosity, others with open hostility. And then there were the ones that were simply waiting... anticipating violence.
At the heart of the room, a spiral staircase made of rusted iron coiled downward into darkness. A brute of a man stood at the entrance, his arms crossed over a chest thick with muscle. A serpent tattoo slithered down his forearm, its inked fangs bared. His gaze flickered over Tink before settling on me.
His lip curled.
"The cripple. Who's he?" His voice was rough, each syllable soaked in alcohol and cigarette smoke.
Tink let out a lazy chuckle, setting me down before crossing his arms.
"My business with Moskov doesn't involve you," he said coolly.
The guard raised an eyebrow, staring at me like I was something he had scraped off his boot. Then, suddenly, he laughed—a dry, humorless sound.
"Go in if you want. If Moskov accepts you, I don't give a shit."
He stepped aside, revealing the gaping maw of the staircase.
Tink wasted no time, tugging me forward.
The deeper we descended, the heavier the air became. The laughter, the shouts, the wails of pain—they all became clearer.
This was no simple gambling den.
This was a graveyard for the desperate.
And at the bottom of this abyss...
Moskov was waiting.