Rusted Smog -17-
The whisper and humming of Max as they glided toward the last known haunt of their target would have been a pleasant touch—something to breach the tension in the air and soften the edges of anticipation.
But, unfortunately, it only seemed to irritate Sinn even more.
What was supposed to be a solo job had now become a duet.
The target wasn't alone; he had a vestige aiding him, and Lamar himself harbored a bizarre obsession with sacrificial tombs and runes.
No one knew what Lamar gained from these rituals, but in Sinn's eyes, that uncertainty elevated his danger level to somewhere between Vestige One and Two.
Anyone who could command the help of a vestige couldn't possibly be weak.
This understanding made it harder for Sinn to ask for help.
Yet Jenny, ever decisive, had already volunteered Max before Sinn could object.
Perhaps this was all a setup—a chance for Jenny's people to study Sinn. He couldn't really blame them.
His powers must seem strange to them, and he'd never bothered to demonstrate his abilities.
The energy within him was low, almost worthless by their standards. How could he possibly be strong?
This mission was as much a test of Sinn's strength and intelligence as it was a hunt.
Even knowing this, he disliked the arrangement.
It felt less like a pursuit and more like a toddler trailing an adult, watching and learning.
He'd changed his style, tailored his clothes to fit his own aesthetic, but it all felt meaningless.
Even the search for the target was done for him; even the fight itself would likely be orchestrated.
In his mind, Sinn believed he was easy to understand, easygoing when left alone.
But perhaps he would have to fight—to prove himself, to deter this kind of oversight in the future.
With his internal battle settled, Sinn cast a glance at Max, sitting beside him in their unique vehicle—a car that floated and glided through the air.
Its brand name, "Oiseau du Ciel," meant "sky bird" in the lost language of French.
The interior was draped in smooth black silk, trimmed with gold, more limousine than car, complete with a personal driver.
Sinn found it comfortable enough, though Max seemed to have grown a bit too comfortable with him.
Max hummed along to his music, played on an arcane device called a DL3 player, seemingly unfazed by the fact that he and Luther had intentionally omitted mention of his involvement.
Of course, Max felt Sinn's gaze, but he chose to ignore it, closing his eyes and losing himself in the melody.
Sinn noticed the subtle shift in Max's expression but decided not to comment.
Max was one of the peculiar figures in Nel's life—like an older brother who spoke little but did much behind the scenes.
He had been Sinn's combat instructor, a senior who taught him survival skills.
One of the greatest lessons Max imparted was the art of information gathering and analytical understanding of a person's abilities.
A person's ability was a manifestation of their soul; if you could decipher their powers, you could glimpse their essence.
Even the slightest change in expression or hesitation could signal the activation of an ability.
Fighting a mana user was straightforward—they followed set rules to cast spells, most of which were public knowledge.
Only a handful of high-class spell runes remained secret. Their concepts were easy enough to grasp.
But vestiges, or halflings who used dialect as a medium to channel otherworldly energy, manifested abilities unique to their souls—these were far trickier adversaries.
Sinn's own ability was weak in direct combat, but lethal as support.
Yet his character refused to play the supporting role.
Nel had used his gift as a helper in the shadows, but Sinn wouldn't follow that path.
His bloodline ability, "Stark," would never change, though it might evolve or transform depending on the desires of his soul.
Sinn's character differed from Nel's—so what would he gain from his evolution? Did the mind influence the soul more than the soul shaped the body?
Thinking this, Sinn couldn't help but laugh aloud. It was just like that old riddle: What came first, the chicken or the egg?
…
On the ragged outskirts of Telcos City, Sinn and Max's vehicle drifted down like a tired bird, coming to rest in one of the city's most forgotten corners.
When the doors slid open with a sigh, Sinn stepped out first, eyes dropping to the ground.
The earth here was just hard-packed dirt, streaked with old stains and scattered trash—never meant for cars or even shoes, really.
All around them, the houses crowded together, stacked and squeezed like mismatched shipping crates.
Their walls were patched up with rusty metal sheets and flickering neon scraps, leftovers from some long-gone tech boom.
Narrow alleys twisted between the buildings, barely wide enough for two people to squeeze past each other.
Pipes crawled along the walls, dripping steam and oily gunk, while loose wires sparked now and then in the gloom.
Overhead, the sky was hidden by a thick blanket of smog, turning everything a dull gray and swallowing any hint of sunlight.
The whole place felt cramped and heavy, every surface worn down by time—a glimpse of a future that never quite worked out.
The air was thick with a nasty mix: sharp ammonia, sour rot, and the unmistakable whiff of things left to die and be forgotten.
This neighborhood didn't bother hiding its poverty; it hit you right in the nose and eyes, daring you to look away.
For Sinn, this was nothing like Nel's memories.
Back then, it had always been busy streets, bright lights, and Jenny's crew close by.
But now he saw it clearly: every city, every country, had these hidden pockets where the unwanted gathered, where rats and desperate souls made their homes among the ruins.
Max climbed out next, leaving the vehicle humming quietly behind them, as if it knew they'd be back soon.
There was a silent understanding between the two—if Max was on the job, it wouldn't take long.
"Hate the smell?" Max finally broke the silence, his deep voice carrying a hint of surprise.
He'd ignored Sinn for ages, but the words slipped out anyway.
Sinn glanced at the sword strapped across Max's back, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
"Nah, it's kind of nostalgic," he said, sounding almost relaxed despite the filth.
Max arched an eyebrow, caught off guard by Sinn's slang.
For a pure-blood beast, Sinn sure spoke like someone who'd spent time in places like this.
A sly grin crept onto Max's face. "I too quite like this smell."
"Oh, really now?" Sinn replied, not surprised. A man who killed without blinking probably wasn't bothered by a little stink.
Some jobs weren't about justice—they were just business, death for hire.
Jenny and her crew were no saints, and Sinn had never trusted what she taught Nel.
Sometimes he wondered why Max stuck around, but everyone had their reasons—and sometimes it was best not to dig too deep.
Poke the wrong cat, and you might get scratched.
A small smile hid beneath Sinn's mask. "Let's get this job done already."
With that, Max strode ahead, leading the way through the maze of battered metal and shadows, Sinn following close behind into the city's forgotten edge.
Following Max through the maze of narrow passages and twisting alleys, Sinn moved quietly, his senses alert.
The air shimmered with shifting colors—neon signs flickered above, casting blue, pink, and sickly green glows that danced across the battered metal walls.
Every now and then, the sharp sound of glass breaking echoed from somewhere unseen, mingling with the distant hum of machinery and the occasional clatter of footsteps.
Sinn's gaze swept over the people he passed—or sometimes, the things. One pedestrian was a shark-faced man, his skin gray and rough, whiskers bristling from his cheeks.
Beside him stood a tiny girl, her features eerily similar, and a young woman who could have been her older sister.
All three wore threadbare coats, patched and faded, their eyes wary but curious.
The alleys were so cramped that brushing shoulders with strangers was unavoidable.
Sinn kept one hand near his pockets, but he wasn't too worried about pickpockets.
His valuables—a card and some cash—were buried deep beneath his sleek trench coat, well out of reach.
Despite the crowd, the noise here was strangely muted.
Even as noon approached, the neighborhood felt wrapped in a hush, broken only by the occasional burst of laughter or the tinkle of glass from a nearby bar.
Some buildings were connected by crooked doorways, and as Max led the way, they slipped through several of these, weaving in and out of dim-lit rooms.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted.
Laughter bubbled up from groups of half-lings gathered around sticky tables, cheap liquor flowing freely.
Warm, golden light spilled from hanging bulbs, mixing with the neon outside and painting everyone in surreal hues.
For a moment, the poverty and grime seemed to fade away, replaced by the simple joy of shared company.
It struck Sinn as odd—how people could still find reasons to laugh, even when surrounded by hardship.
Humans and half-lings alike, finding comfort in each other's presence, making the best of what little they had.
It was a strange resilience, one Sinn didn't fully understand.
Emotions, he realized, were still a mystery to him.
Watching the easy camaraderie around him, Sinn made a quiet promise to himself: he would study these feelings more closely, try to grasp what made people smile even in the darkest places.
With renewed resolve, he followed Max deeper into the heart of the city's forgotten edge, the sounds of laughter and shattering glass echoing behind them, colored lights swirling in the haze.