Zane's blood went cold.
The two Nails were 10 meters away. Close enough to smell the rancid oil on their coats.
Close enough for his new skill.
But their minds… they were quiet.
He was still being bombarded by the psychic static of the Sump—the ...so cold... and ...so hungry... and ...oh gods, the rot...—but from the two gangers, he got nothing.
The skill, Whispers of Despair, only picked up on despair so far.
These men weren't despairing. They were hunting.
The realization hit him like a lead pipe. His new power was a fucking victim-finder. It was useless against predators but worked for the prey.
The hatchet-faced Nail's eyes scanned the street. They passed over Zane, then snapped back.
Caught.
Zane's instinct was to meet his gaze. To look human.
No. Wrong. He's not looking for a human. He's looking for a 'demon'.
He needed to be the opposite of a threat. He needed to be pathetic.
He let his shoulders slump. He let his head drop, tucking his chin. He let the filth of the Sump, the psychic screaming of all the hopeless souls around him, wash over his face.
He wasn't Zane, the guy with a new, dark power.
He was just another piece of wet, grey trash. He was ...so cold... so hungry...
He forced his feet to shuffle, one after the other, toward the greasy door of the Sump-Pit.
"Hey."
The voice was like gravel.
Zane flinched but didn't stop.
A heavy, gauntleted hand slammed into his shoulder, spinning him around and shoving him hard against the flophouse wall. His head thwacked against the slimy brick.
The hatchet-faced Nail loomed over him. His breath was a foul cloud of rotten teeth and cheap gin.
"I'm talking to you, shit-stain," he snarled.
The other Nail stood back, his hand on a heavy wrench hanging from his belt.
Zane kept his eyes down, staring at the Rusted-Nail insignia on the man's jacket. He could feel the cold, wet brick seeping through his tunic.
"You see anything in that alley?" the Nail growled, leaning in. "A fight? Anyone... weird?"
Zane tried to channel every miserable, whimpering thought he was hearing from the street. He forced a pathetic, chattering shiver.
"N-no..." he whispered. "N-nothing. Just... hungry."
The Nail stared at him, his dead eyes searching Zane's face. Zane could feel the man's suspicion. He was looking for the "demon" Rat had babbled about.
Zane just let a line of spittle and rain dribble from his lip. He looked less than human.
"Please," Zane whimpered. "Just... cold..."
The Nail held the gaze for another second.
Then, a look of pure, utter disgust washed over his face.
He'd found what he was looking for: nothing. Just another Sump-rat.
"Fucking pathetic," the Nail spat.
He shoved Zane's face hard into the wall. "Piss off, scum."
Zane crumpled to the ground, not resisting.
He heard the Nail's heavy boots splash away. "He saw nothing. Let's check the other side of the block. The Boss wants this fucker found."
Zane stayed on the ground, his cheek pressed to the filthy cobblestones, until their footsteps faded.
He waited. One breath. Two.
He pushed himself up, his ribs aching from the kick he'd taken in the alley.
He'd survived… for now.
He'd acted his way out of it. He had weaponized being pathetic.
He turned, clutched the five bloody coins in his pocket, and shoved open the door to the Sump-Pit.
The inside was worse than the outside.
If the Sump was a shithole, this was the sewer pipe.
The air was a toxic, visible cloud of unwashed bodies, cheap gin, stale smoke, and a choking chemical incense that smelled like burning plastic and lavender. It was a one-room common-hell, filled with shadows slumped over rickety tables.
Zane's Whispers skill exploded.
The despair in this one room was so concentrated it was like a physical weight.
<...lost it all... lost it... all... ...just one more hit... then I quit... I swear... ...the cough... it's in my bones... I'm done... ...if he comes back, I'll... I'll... (a vague, terrified image of a fist)...>
Zane gritted his teeth, the psychic noise making his skull ache. He stumbled toward the bar—a plank of wood laid over two barrels.
Behind it sat a man who was 90% grime and 10% old-man. One of his eyes was a milky, scarred-over pit. The other was a bloodshot marble, dripping with suspicion.
Zane got within ten meters.
<...five days... five fucking days late... the Nails... they're gonna take the other eye... they're gonna... gods...>
The innkeeper's despair was a sharp, sour spike in the dull roar.
"What?" the old man grunted, his one good eye narrowing.
"Room," Zane said. His voice was a dry croak. "For... for the night."
The old man laughed, a wet, hacking sound. "Room. You got coin for a room? Or you just here to stink up the place?"
Zane put his hand on the bar. He opened it.
The five bronze coins, still smeared with drying blood, clattered onto the wood.
The old man's one eye went wide. He stared at the coins, then at Zane, then back at the coins.
He didn't ask where the blood came from. This was the Sump.
He snatched the coins up, his movements "fast as a lizard," and bit one.
"Right," he rasped, his tone changing. He swept them into a drawer. "One night."
He slapped a rusty, bent piece of metal onto the bar. It wasn't a key. It was the bolt-pin for a door.
"Room 4. Top of the stairs. Don't die. The smell pisses off the other tenants."
Zane grabbed the bolt.
<...five... five whole coins... I can... I can pay them... I can...> The old man's thoughts were a sudden, sharp wave of relief so potent it almost made Zane dizzy.
Zane just nodded, turned, and headed for the rickety, splintered stairs in the back.
The shadows in the common room didn't look up. They were too lost in their own misery.
Zane climbed the stairs, his boots creaking on the rotten wood. The hallway above was pitch black. He felt his way along the wall until his hand hit a '4' carved into the wood.
The door was a flimsy sheet of particle board.
He fumbled with the bolt-pin, found the slot, and slid it into the rusted hasp on the inside of the door.
Click.
He was in.
He sagged back against the door, his legs giving out.
The "room" was a closet. A four-by-four box that smelled like mold, old sweat, and human failure. A thin, filthy mat was lumped in the corner.
It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
He was safe. He was hidden. He was alone.
He slid down the door and sat on the floor, the Whispers from the floor below muffled by the wood.
He closed his eyes.
The electric thrum from the feast was gone.
The sharp, crisp vision was gone.
The feeling of strength... gone.
And the gnawing was back.
The black hole in his gut yawned open. It was worse this time. The feast had only made it bigger.
He'd had his first real hit.
And now, he was in withdrawal.
He was alone, in a locked room, with a beast he couldn't control.
He needed another fix and he needed it now.