Viper's corpse had been scrubbed clean, along with the dark red wine stain on the carpet, erased by professional cleaning bots without a trace.
At this moment, Vance sat in the wide leather executive chair, his feet resting casually on the edge of the mahogany desk. On the holographic screen before him, streams of data cascaded like a digital waterfall.
It was the Arena's transaction log. Vance knew Viper was rich, but seeing the actual numbers made him whistle. As the biggest gold sink in District 9, the daily cash flow here was enough to buy the lives of half the slums.
This was the scent of power. It no longer smelled of rotting apples, but of cold ink and metal.
"Five million Credits in liquid assets, control rights to three underground energy lines, and a warehouse full of high-purity biofuel." Vance swiped his finger across the screen, stopping at an encrypted "Special Contacts" list. His gaze landed on a codename: [The Watchmaker].
"So Viper was funding the Ghost Market's info broker all along." Vance smirked, turning his head toward the corner of the sofa.
The white-haired boy, freshly washed, was curled up there. He was wrapped in a white bathrobe scavenged from the lounge, wet hair sticking to his ears, hands tightly clutching a blue glass vial. It was military-grade energy serum, priced at 8,000 Credits a pop. For a normal person, one tube would explode their heart; for the boy named Cerberus, it was just milk.
"Taste good?" Vance asked.
Cerberus bit on the straw and nodded vigorously. His face had more color now; the deathly pallor of a broken tool was gone, replaced by the vitality of a young beast.
"Drink up if you like it." Vance tapped the terminal, unlocking the warehouse permissions. "Unlimited supply from now on. But I don't need you to grow fat. I need you to grow fangs."
He stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. From here, he could overlook the nightscape of District 9. Neon lights flickered in the acid rain like a burning deep sea.
He had money, territory, and a muscle. But Vance didn't feel relaxed. Winning against Viper was a slap in the face to the "Seven Deadly Sins." The Administrator hiding behind the scenes—[Pride]—would not tolerate an outsider dancing on his chessboard. Retaliation would come soon: assassination, economic sanctions, or direct military suppression.
To survive, holding this acre of land wasn't enough. He needed eyes. Thousands of eyes. Eyes that could peer into every dark corner of this city, eyes that could dig secrets out of the trash.
"Stop drinking." Vance turned and walked to Cerberus, pulling the robe off him. Cerberus froze, instinctively trying to protect the serum, a low growl rumbling in his throat. But seeing it was Vance, he immediately retracted his claws and stood straight.
Vance kicked over a black metal crate. It popped open, revealing a brand-new set of gear. It was a special tactical suit Vance had just ordered via the black market express: matte black stab-proof trench coat, Kevlar-lined cargo pants, and magnetic tactical boots. No decorations. Purely for slaughter and survival.
Cerberus held the clothes clumsily, unsure how to put them on. Vance sighed, resigned to his fate as a babysitter, and buttoned the coat for him, fastening the belt that held tactical daggers around his waist.
"Remember, from today on, you are no longer a beast in a cage." Vance adjusted the boy's collar, stepping back to admire his work. The dirty, hollow-eyed boy was gone. Standing before him was a young reaper in black tactical gear, eyes cold, radiating danger. The only eyesore was the black collar, but against this outfit, it added a cruel, ascetic aesthetic.
"Cerberus. In ancient myths, the hound that guards hell." Vance looked into his eyes. "They called you that to make you a dog. But I'm keeping the name. Because from today, you will guard my hell. Listen for the lies of this world, and tear the liars apart."
Cerberus blinked, not fully understanding, but sensing the gravity in Vance's tone, he nodded firmly.
"Let's go." Vance grabbed the car key Viper had left behind. "We're going shopping."
Twenty minutes later, a heavy black hovercar, like a steel beast, roared low and parked arrogantly above the narrow, filthy entrance of the Ghost Market. The massive thruster airflow blew away roadside stalls, drawing curses. But the moment they saw the menacing Arena emblem on the chassis, the curses vanished, replaced by dead silence and awe.
In District 9, this car represented absolute violence and privilege.
The hatch opened. Vance walked down the retractable steps. He had changed into a tailored dark grey coat, holding no weapon, idly playing with a gold chip in his fingers. Behind him, Cerberus followed like a shadow, his silhouette flickering in the neon gloom, only his reflective eyes chilling the blood of onlookers.
The gang members who usually bullied the weak now shrank into the shadows, daring not to breathe. They didn't know Vance's face, but they knew the car, and they knew the white-haired monster behind him.
No one dared to ask for a toll. Vance didn't spare the ants a glance. He walked straight through the crowd, ignoring the gazes of greed, envy, and fear, plunging like a dagger into the heart of the Ghost Market.
He stopped in front of a dilapidated iron door. "Old Ghost's Horology." The sign was crooked, and the smell of machine oil and desiccants leaked from the cracks. In Viper's encrypted files, this was marked as a key "Intelligence Hub."
Vance didn't ring the bell. He flicked his wrist, sending the gold chip—worth 100,000 Credits—sliding through the gap under the door.
Cling. The chip rolled on the floor, making a crisp sound, before hitting a workbench leg and stopping.
A noise of surprise came from inside, followed by heavy footsteps. The iron door creaked open.
Old Ghost stood there, holding a dripping hydraulic shear, his face grim. But seeing the gold chip and the powerful aura of the young man outside, his expression shifted. From disdain to caution. He had heard the news—Viper was dead, and a new lunatic had taken over.
"The new boss of the Arena?" Old Ghost's voice was raspy and grating. "What business brings you to my humble clock shop?"
"I'm here to make a deal." Vance smiled and stepped over the threshold. Cerberus followed, closing the door backhand, shutting out the noise.
Vance walked to the workbench, idly poking at some precision parts. "I need eyes. Eyes that can see through every sewer in District 9, eyes that can watch the Seven Deadly Sins for me. I saw your name in Viper's ledger. They say you're the best info broker in the Ghost Market."
He turned to look at Old Ghost's cloudy eyes. "That chip is a deposit. I want to buy you... or rather, buy your entire intelligence network."
Old Ghost paused, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Buy me? Kid, you think just because you changed your skin and sat in the Arena's chair, you can walk sideways in the Ghost Market?"
Old Ghost raised the hydraulic shear, which smelled of stale blood. "Here, money isn't everything. Viper could command me because we had decades of history, and he knew the rules. You want me to be your dog? You have to prove you're qualified to hold the leash."
Vance didn't get angry. He seemed to expect this.
"Of course. I know the rules."
Vance pulled a fresh deck of poker cards from his pocket, tore the seal, and shuffled them with a loud thwip.
"Since you make a living with your eyes, let's bet on eyesight." He tossed the deck onto the table.
"If you win, the Arena is yours. If you lose..." Vance's gaze sharpened like a blade.
"Your life is mine."