They Who Slaughtered Hope 🌈| Slow Updates/Editing

Chapter 25

The night air was thick with the scent of midday rain and the distant echo that could be likened to the city's heartbeat, if it had one. Ren and Lennox, their earlier confrontation hanging between them like a spectre, made their way across the bridge. The sniper led the way with confidence, shushing Lennox with each accusatory inquiry. The Globe's neon sign and booming music, a garish beacon in the otherwise silent night, flickered erratically, casting an otherworldly glow on their path.

The entrance loomed before them, a portal to another world where the past's grandeur clashed with the present's misery and decay. The scent of stale beer mixed with the sweet tang of spilled cocktails assaulted their senses as they stepped inside. Pink and yellow lanterns lit the theatre-turned-taproom, casting soft shadows in its wake.

Surrounding Lennox and Ren was three stories of seating, barely lit but decked out in lush accommodations and screens that shrouded very little. In the centre, where the stage used to be, stood a raised platform filled with eager patrons with the newfound courage to dance among the club's professionals.

Circular tables studded the room between the dance floor and the dome of private rooms, littered with people as colourful as the neon lights draped across every awning.

Lennox was the first to break the newfound silence. "I still can't believe that I let you drag me across the bridge. And to the Globe, no less! Aren't you afraid that we'll get found out? That someone will ask questions they shouldn't and rat us out to the Syndicate?"

Ren's reply was a nonchalant shrug. "That never stopped me before. But with you spouting your secrets to everyone who might be listening, who knows."

"Lucky you, there's a new addition to the long list of things that don't stop you," Lennox grumbled.

As they slipped through the crowd, the cacophony of the bar enveloped them—a symphony of clinking glasses, raucous laughter, and the low hum of bass from the speakers. They found a secluded corner among the luxury couches, the dim lighting casting shadows that seemed to promise anonymity.

Lennox leaned back against the wall, his eyes scanning the room. "This place... it's not what I expected."

Ren chuckled, the sound mingling with the ambient noise. "The Globe has seen better days, but it has everything you might want for a night out."

They ordered drinks, albeit reluctantly as Ren attempted to consume as little as possible. He exchanged a look with Lennox, who had no qualms with downing the liquor.

With each shot, the weight of their secrets pressed against their lips, begging for release. It was a dangerous game they played, balancing on the edge of revelation and regret. But the alcohol was a persuasive confidant, and soon, their words flowed as freely as the liquor that fueled them.

Lennox's voice cut through the din, low and edged with a hint of disbelief. "I met Mel yesterday, when I said I was out doing errands."

Ren's hand paused mid-air, the glass he was about to sip from now forgotten. "Mel? As in..."

"The same," Lennox confirmed, his eyes not meeting Ren's. "She sent me this mysterious invitation, inviting me to dinner. She told me that she's leading some third faction, the Fringe. Apparently, she's been able to keep it under the Syndicate's and the Brotherhood's radars. And get this: she said she was actually this Sarlyn person, and that she was searching for someone... someone who looked like you, but not you. A woman," he whispered in the sniper's ear.

The revelation hung between them, a silent challenge. Ren's heart skipped a beat, a familiar fear creeping up his spine. This was it—a moment of revelation that he dreaded yet dreamed for.