Chapter 125: The Price of Power
The black market was nestled deep in the heart of the city's underbelly, hidden beneath layers of false storefronts, back-alley connections, and a network of whispered transactions. To the untrained eye, it was just another abandoned warehouse—a relic of the past, decaying with time. But for those in the know, it was a thriving ecosystem of crime, desperation, and opportunity.
Getting in wasn't going to be easy.
Milan led the way, his confidence making it seem as though he had walked these paths a thousand times before. Anthony, in contrast, strode in with the same relaxed energy he carried everywhere—like this was just another weekend outing. The rest of us kept to the shadows, eyes scanning every movement, every shift in the air that could signal a problem.
At the entrance, a line of guards blocked our path. They weren't just your average hired muscle—they were the kind of people who'd kill first and ask questions never. Each one had the dead-eyed stare of someone who had seen enough bloodshed to stop caring.
One of them, a thick-necked man with a prosthetic arm, stepped forward. "Invites."
Milan barely hesitated. He reached into his coat and pulled out a casino style chip. "New buyer. Word is, you've got inventory that would interest us."
The guard snorted, clearly unimpressed. "We hear that ten times a night." His prosthetic hand flexed, metal fingers clanking together. "No invite, no entry."
Anthony grinned. "That's funny, because I brought a gift." He pulled something out of his pocket—a compact, high-powered pistol, military grade. The kind of weapon that wasn't supposed to be on the streets.
The guard's eyes narrowed.
"Limited run," Anthony said, tossing it casually. "Straight from a restricted facility. You won't find another one like it."
The guard caught it, testing the weight. His expression barely shifted, but I could tell we were getting somewhere. Still, he wasn't fully convinced.