Two guards flanked the heavy steel door, their weapons at the ready.
Tink said nothing.
With a silent, deliberate motion, he pulled out a yellow access card and swiped it through the lock.
Beep.
A small light flashed green, and the door creaked open.
The guards watched us closely, their eyes cold, calculating. But they didn't move to stop us.
I didn't ask any questions.
Tink clearly had secrets I wasn't privy to.
And one thing was certain—that yellow card wasn't just an entry pass.
The door swung open, revealing a space of absolute chaos.
The second-floor management office wasn't the lavish domain of Voska on the first floor.
Nor was it the cold, disciplined order of the ground floor.
It was something else entirely.
Steel filing cabinets lined the walls, their doors left ajar, stuffed with unfinished contracts, top-secret blueprints, and bloodstained dossiers.
Crates marked with the sigils of underground arms giants—Korvus Industries, Black Fang, Dojima Heavy Arms—were haphazardly stacked, some left open, revealing military-grade rifles, combat knives, and rows upon rows of neatly packed ammunition.
Gunpowder. Old paper. And something else.
The faint, lingering scent of freshly brewed tea.
At the far end of the room, beyond the scattered files and discarded weapons, sat a single ebony desk.
Towering over it—a tall, thin man in a slightly wrinkled white shirt. One hand held an old newspaper, the other idly stroking a sleek black cat perched on his lap.
His eyes were sharp, betraying a mind that saw more than it let on.
And yet, despite the utter disorder surrounding him, he seemed unbothered. Untouchable.
With calculated ease, he lifted his tea, took a sip, and finally lowered the newspaper.
His gaze landed on Tink.
And in an instant, something changed.
"Gakun... is that you?"
Tink's voice was calm, but something raw lurked beneath it.
For a moment, Gakun froze, his sharp eyes widening ever so slightly.
Then—
The newspaper slipped from his fingers.
In a blur of motion, he was out of his chair, crossing the room in two long strides.
"You're back?! Where the hell have you been?!"
His voice cracked—not with anger, but with relief.
"Do you have any idea how long I thought you were dead?!"
And before Tink could respond—
Gakun pulled him into a fierce embrace.
It was not the greeting of a crime lord.
It was the desperate grip of a brother reunited with someone he thought he'd lost forever.
I stood still, watching the raw emotion unfold before me.
For all the blood and violence that filled this city, there were still things even it couldn't crush.
Finally, Tink clapped a hand on Gakun's shoulder, his voice quieter now.
"I'll tell you everything soon… but first, we need a place to talk."
Gakun exhaled, releasing his grip—but the joy in his eyes didn't fade.
Then, as if only just noticing me, he turned, giving me a once-over.
"And who's this?"
I met his gaze without hesitation.
"Michel. I'm traveling with Tink."
A single brow lifted.
Then, a smirk.
"Tink? Traveling with someone?" Gakun let out a low chuckle, eyes glinting with mischief. "Damn. You must be impressive if you got him to work with you."
I wasn't sure if that was a compliment or an insult.
So I said nothing.
With a casual clap of his hands, Gakun strode back to his desk.
"Well then—welcome to the second floor, Michel. But I doubt you two came just for a happy reunion."
Tink nodded, his expression turning serious.
"We need a pass to the third floor."
Gakun paused, setting the cat down on the table.
It stretched lazily, then leapt onto a nearby filing cabinet, curling into a sleek black ball.
"The third floor… huh."
His fingers drummed against the wooden desk.
"Not so simple."
Then, slowly, he pulled open a drawer, extracting a document stamped in deep red ink—the pass.
For a moment, he simply held it, rolling it between his fingers.
Then he leaned back, crossing his arms, his smirk sharpening.
"You think I'll just hand this over?"
Tink's eyebrow twitched.
"Gakun, stop playing around."
But Gakun's smirk didn't waver.
"I'm not playing." His voice was light, but there was an edge to it. "Do you even know who's running the third floor now?"
Tink's entire body stiffened.
For the first time since we walked in, I saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
"…Who?"
Gakun's smirk widened.
"Garmuth."
The air itself seemed to freeze.
A single name, yet it carried the weight of something terrible.
Even I, without knowing who Garmuth was, could feel it.
Tink's hands clenched into fists.
"He's still alive?" His voice was low. Dangerous.
Gakun chuckled.
"Not just alive, my friend." He leaned forward, his gaze dark and knowing. "He's stronger than ever. He controls everything now. The market, the deals… even Moskov is just a puppet under him."
Tink said nothing.
For the first time, he hesitated.
And that was enough for me to know—
Garmuth wasn't just another enemy.
He was something else.
But after a long pause, Tink finally exhaled—and when he looked up, his expression was set in stone.
"Doesn't matter."
His voice was firm.
"We're still going up."
Gakun held his gaze for a beat—then sighed.
"Figures."
Without another word, he slid the pass across the table.
Tink picked it up.
I reached out and took it.
And the moment my fingers brushed against the paper, a chill ran down my spine.
"Be careful."
Gakun's voice was lower now, almost a whisper.
"Garmuth… is not the same man you remember."
We said nothing.
There was nothing left to say.
With the pass in hand, we turned toward the exit.