The door groaned open. A figure stumbled in, smelling of rot and stale iodine.
"Hello there, Mrs. Bái. How have you been?" questioned the man, his voice rasping through the layers of filthy, crusted bandages that wrapped his entire body, resembling a mummy dug straight out of a cheap horror flick. Only his eyes—sharp, steel-grey, and terribly alive—belonged to this century.
"Terrific. Have you finally come to get rid of that atrocious outfit of yours?" said Bái.
Both men looked at each other. The man in the suit chuckled under his breath. With a punch to his shoulder by the man in rags, he stopped as the room began to grow tense.
"We're here on orders by Vic—" the man in rags started, then stopped, looking at Florian.
"Worry not, he was just about to leave, ain't that right?" said Bái.
"Yes, indeed. Sorry if I may," replied Florian.
The armored man grabbed Florian's shoulder with a grip that could crush stone. Florian's entire body seized up, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. The armored man stared at him, face completely expressionless.
He was enormous, a concrete slab of a man with a faceless steel visor and a chainmail vest. Emblazoned across his chest was a faded, bronze relief of a swirling sun.
Slowly, the armored man reached out. He tapped the cheap brass sun medallion dangling from Florian's sweating neck.
"Peace be with you, brother of the sun," said the man.
Florian swallowed hard, forcing a waxy smile onto his trembling lips. "Oh, as with you, brother. Stay rotted as the tree, as we are connected as one."
The armored man let him go. Florian didn't run—he practically dissolved into the alleyway's shadows, the rusty door slamming shut behind him.
A heavy silence settled. The Rag Man exhaled slowly, the tension leaving his shoulders as he pulled down the bandages over his nose, revealing a pale, patchwork face full of burn scars.
"Brothers of the Sun are hunting him," the Rag Man grunted, reaching into his coat.
Florian walked back into the street and to his motorcycle. Driving off into the distance.
---
Florian stood at the edge of the cordon, staring at what remained of The Stack.
The building was gutted. Blackened skeletons of support beams jutted out like broken ribs. The lower floors were still standing, but the upper levels had collapsed inward, leaving a gaping wound in the skyline. The smell of smoke and burnt concrete hung in the air, thick enough to taste.
Police tape stretched across the entrance. A few officers stood nearby, but they weren't doing much—just watching, smoking, occasionally waving away curious pedestrians. Florian noticed the way they looked past the gang members slipping through the side entrance. Three men in leather jackets, a woman with a duffel bag. The police didn't stop them.
Florian's hands were shaking. His sister had been inside this building.
He tried to move closer. An officer stepped in front of him.
"Sorry, kid. This area's closed."
"I'm looking for my sister. She worked here. I just need to—"
"Move along."
The officer's voice was flat. Bored. He'd said this a hundred times today.
Florian's jaw tightened. He stepped back, scanning the crowd of onlookers. Reporters. Grief-stricken families. Workers trying to figure out if they still had jobs. And then he saw her.
A woman standing near the police line, hugging herself. She was young—maybe a few years older than his sister. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale. She wore a name badge clipped to her jacket, the logo of The Stack half-burned away.
Florian moved toward her.
"Excuse me," he said softly. "Did you work here?"
The woman flinched, looking up at him with watery eyes. "Yeah. I—I was on the second floor. When it happened."
"Do you know my sister? She worked on the top floors. Long black hair. Around this tall." He held his hand at shoulder level.
The woman's face crumpled. "Cecilia? She was—she was on the sixth floor that night. I saw her go up with some of the VIP guests."
Florian's blood went cold. "Is she—is she—"
"I don't know." The woman shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I don't know what happened to her. I haven't seen her since. But—" She lowered her voice. "There's someone who might know. Someone who saw everything that night. Who knows everyone who was in that building."
"Who?"
The woman looked around nervously, then leaned closer. "There's a woman. She was held captive there too. They tortured her, but she survived. She saw everything—the people, the deals, the faces. If anyone knows what happened to your sister, it's her."
"Is she still here?"
"No. She was rescued. I don't know where they took her, but I heard she's with people who can protect her. You need to find her, before the gangs do."
"Who is she? What's her name?"
The woman's voice dropped to barely a whisper.
"Elena. Her name is Elena. She's the one you need to find."
Florian's mind raced. Elena. The woman who survived. The one who saw everything.
"Where can I find her?" he asked.
The woman shook her head. "I don't know exactly. But I heard she's with a group—people who took her in after the attack. They're not part of the gangs. They're something else."
"Something else?"
"They call themselves Para D." The woman glanced around nervously. "That's all I know. Please—don't tell anyone I told you this. I'm not supposed to be talking about any of this."
"I won't," Florian said. "Thank you."
He turned and walked away, his mind already racing. Para D. Elena. The Stack.
His sister was still out there.
And now he had a lead.