Chapter 22
1567words
My eyes widened at the familiar voice, though I quickly went back to normal with my usual expression as soon as I saw Mr. S'dala. A rush of that same light feeling in my chest came back; it always does when I see Mr. S'dala.
He stood in his usual way, tall and sharp, his hands always behind his back. I wondered why he does that. Does it help his back? Or is it just his way of walking? He looks really out of place here in the Underbelly. His clothes are really polished, utterly different from what everyone else is wearing.
"Mr. S'dala," I said.
He smiled faintly. "What a dreary place to meet, hm? I was on business nearby, but I couldn't resist visiting my brightest min. How are you feeling? Any changes? Anything different?"
I averted my eyes downward. "...No."
I can tell that he is studying me. I felt it. His eyes were trying to search for something that I wouldn't say. Yet, his smile didn't fade. "Good! Care to join me?"
I looked up from the ground and looked at him. I'm confused. Why does he want me to with him?
"... Why?" I said lowly.
"Well, I'm on a business trip for the special armed forces, and since you'll be working for them when you graduate. It'll be a nice experience to have. Think of it as a mini internship."
Putting it that way... yes, it can give me experience, and I'll be away from the apartment. And... I'll be close to Mr. S'dala. Just that thought makes my chest even lighter.
"... Okay." I said.
"Great!" He smiled.
We began walking down the main avenue of the Underbelly, and the cracked pavement was scattering beneath each of our steps. As we walked, I noticed the way people were shifting aside as soon as they caught sight of Mr. S'dala. For what reason, I don't know.
A guy on the sidewalk who sells drugs, mid-sale to a guy who looked extremely disheveled and hungry, stopped abruptly to walk to the other side of the street. A group of young gang members, loud only a moment ago, was now quiet and walked in the dark alleyways. It looked like no one dared try to cross his path.
I glanced around, narrowing my eyes. They weren't avoiding me. They were terrified of him.
But he didn't notice, or if he did, he gave no sign. His posture remained perfectly straight, his hands behind his back as we walked. I suppose it won't hurt to ask.
"Mr. S'dala, they all are... avoiding you. Why?"
"A perk for being in the special armed forces. Something that you'll use one day." He said. "So, tell me, you sure nothing happened since we last spoke? No revelations?"
I made me freeze a bit. Did he know? "No. Not really." My chest fluttered at his attention, but I kept my words neutral. I won't mention what Nathaniel made me do in the sublevel of his father's company.
S'dala gave me a look of amused patience, as though he knew already. He always has this effect. I can't read him. Then he chuckled softly and let it go.
We turned a corner into a narrower street. Between two rusted, leaning buildings, barely standing and rotting concrete, stood a place I would've walked past a hundred times without noticing. A hidden door, marked only by a flickering neon strip.
S'dala stopped before it. "Here."
Inside, the air smelled of sweat, smoke, and alcohol. A bar. The kind only criminals and gang lords frequented. The kind you didn't survive if you didn't belong.
The moment we entered, the noise stopped. Every glass, every laugh, every whisper went silent. Dozens of eyes turned toward us. Hard eyes and cold eyes all looked at us. Then, they looked away and returned to their drinks, their games, and laughter.
This is unusual to me. I remember as a kid. Mother would force me to go with her to bars before. I have witnessed the moment someone who is new, rich, or just doesn't belong would be swarmed like ants. But... he did say the special armed has its perks. So, I suppose that explains why they didn't bother.
I stood close to Mr. S'dala's side. It feels so nice being close to him, and he smells great. Anyway, I wonder what reason he has to be here. So I asked. "Why are we here?"
He tilted his head at me, smiling faintly. "Do you remember what I always told you in class? Never do anything against the law?"
I nodded hesitantly.
"Forget those rules." His hand ruffled my hair briefly, lightly, and I felt my cheeks heat up. He said it with the same kind smile that could burn away all doubts.
Then he walked further inside the bar, calmly, unbothered that we were in a bar full of murderers and thieves. It all seemed to mean nothing to him.
We reached the counter. Behind it stood a thick-shouldered bartender with hard lines carved into his face. The man frowned the second he saw S'dala.
"Well, well," the bartender muttered. "If it isn't the perfect rich fuck face coming in my bar. And with another brat. Been a while since you slummed down here."
S'dala kept his smile on his face. "Frank Devaingo. Always such a warm welcome. Oh, how I've missed it."
"What do you want?" the bartender snapped.
"Oh, nothing I want," S'dala said pleasantly. "It's what my big boss wants."
The man's face darkened. His fist slammed against the counter. "You tell that bitch, Jigoku that-"
The words cut short. A blur of motion, faster than my eyes could follow, S'dala's hand licked, and a thing dagger appeared from his sleeve. The blade pinned the bartender's hand to the wood with a sickening thunk.
"AGH!!" the man yelled, face contorting in pain.
No one bothered to do anything.
S'dala leaned closer, his voice calm and smooth. "What a filthy mouth. Calling my boss a bitch. Tsk, tsk. What a terrible guinea pig you are."
Blood pooled around the dagger's hilt. The man gasped, teeth gritted. S'dala simply smiled, pulling a cloth from his pocket to dab at a speck of dust on his cuff, unbothered by the man's suffering.
I stood frozen, the blood pooling the counter top. I was transfixed of it.
"Now, be a good guinea pig and listen closely."
"Fuck... nGh... you."
The bartender spat through clenched teeth, his jaw tight with defiance even as his blood smeared across the counter.
S'dala's eyes narrowed faintly, but the smile never left his lips. With his free hand, he flicked his wrist, and another thin dagger appeared. The blade slammed down into the bartender's wrist, sinking through tendon and wood until the man's entire arm jerked in a spasm. Then S'dala twisted it.
The man yelled.
The sound was guttural, animal. Sweat broke across his face, veins bulging at his neck. He thrashed against the counter but the knives held him in place, pinning him like an insect in a spider web.
"Now, now, you didn't even let me tell you the first message." S'dala murmured, voice calm and warm. "Now, do you know what happens to guinea pigs who squeal too loudly?"
The bartender's teeth clattered as he tried to choke out a curse, but it came broken, muffled under his own groan.
"They get silenced. Especially when they disrespect the big boss."
S'dala twisted the blade further until the wood cracked beneath it, then suddenly released his grip, letting the man collapse forward onto the counter. His body shuddered, one hand trapped to the bar, the other dangling limp.
No one in the room moved. Not one. Glasses lifted, dice rolled, smokes lit, all ignoring the scene. Including me. I just stared at the blood.
I could smell the mantellic, mixing with the sour scent of cheap liquor. My chest felt tight, except, no, not tight. Light. Strange. Almost like... relief. Relief of seeing the blood.
S'dala leaned down, his lips close to the man's ear. "Secondly, be a good guinea pig and listen to orders. My boss doesn't like disobedience. He doesn't like disrespect. And I" his smile sharpened, "... don't like repeating myself. So, don't make me do it again."
The bartender panted heavily, his eyes bloodshot with pain. "Y-you'll... all burn," he croaked.
S'dala tilted his head, amused. Then, in a flash, the dagger was gone from his wrist, flicked back up into S'dala's sleeve. Blood gushed as the bartender's arm sagged uselessly, but S'dala simply patted his shoulder like an old friend.
"See? That wasn't so hard. You can still use your other hand to pour drinks. Don't say I'm not merciful."
He straightened, plucking a napkin from the counter to wipe his gloves with lazy precision.
I watched the bartender slump against the wood, his good hand clutching his ruined wrist, his breath ragged. No one offered him help. No one dared.
Before he walked off, he looked over his shoulder, "And Frank, you won't get another warning." Then S'dala turned to me, his smile gentle. "Come now, Slyvian. Business here is done. Let's not linger."
And just like that, he walked away, hands behind his back, stepping carefully so as not to track the blood.
I followed.
