Max walked through the streets with his hands in his pockets, letting the crowd carry him like a current. The morning city was a living thing—wheels humming, drones blinking in the sky, street vendors shouting over each other like they were paid by the syllable. But Max wasn't listening. He was tracing memories. Corners. Faces. Back alleys.
Eventually, he found it.
A dead-end street with no signage. A wall of metal, seamless and gray. The kind of place you only find if you already know it's there.
He reached into his cube, pulled out the mask—matte black, no markings—and slipped it over his face. A familiar quiet came over him. Anonymous again.
He raised his hand and knocked.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
A hatch slid open. Behind it, a pair of eyes. Impassive. Watching.
"What are you here for?" the voice asked, flat.
Max answered without pause.
"There was a heart beyond the door… still beating."
The man behind the slit didn't blink. "And what did the silence whisper... when the candle guttered out?"
"That the dark had always been there," Max replied.
The metal door creaked open, and the sound echoed down the alley like a secret being told. Max stepped inside.
It was just as he remembered.
The black market wasn't chaos—it was precision buried in filth. Stalls lined the narrow walkways, canopies stitched from patchwork leather and tarp. Lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly yellow on everything beneath. The smell was a mix of burning oil, old metal, and too many people keeping too many secrets.
Max moved through it with purpose. He passed a merchant peddling "untraceable familiars"—caged things that didn't blink. Another offered memories in jars, swirls of light barely moving under glass. A few buyers stood by a rusted fountain, haggling over a bloodless sword.
Max ignored all of it.
He turned right at the thick curls of incense smoke weaving through the air, passed three stalls cluttered with strange trinkets and half-whispered deals, then slipped behind a faded curtain scrawled with chalk—no words, just a symbol that looked like a closed eye.
"Welcome to Veel-neuv's Veil, monsieur… I 'ave been expecteeng you, yes? It eez... how you say... a place of many secreets."
Max arched an eyebrow, glancing at the man behind the stall. "Where are you from, with that accent?"
"I'm from Eldoria. It used to be so beautiful, oui—fields wide as zee eye can zee, forests full of ze life. Now, it's just people, tired, no spirit left in their hearts. Like ze land itself ees weeping, mon ami."
Max nodded, the words lingering in the heavy air. "Well, I'm in the market for powerful smoke bombs."
"Oui. Something to make a quick escape, non? Discreet and effective, like a little puff of mystery in ze night."
The man's eyes glimmered beneath thick brows, hands already rummaging under the stall. The smell of burnt herbs and something metallic clung to the air—an odd mixture, sharp and lingering.
"Not all smoke bombs are created equal," he warned, voice low and gravelly. "Some whisper, some scream. What do you want yours to say, eh? A gentle breeze to cover your footsteps, or a loud bang to confuse ze enemies?"
Max didn't hesitate. "I want something that lasts, creates a crowd of smoke. More bang."
"Ah, you want ze lasting fog, oui? A cloud so thick it will swallow ze whole street! More bang, you say? Then we make it loud enough to send ze pigeons flying and ze guards runnin' for cover. You zee, monsieur, zat's not just smoke—eet ees a symphony of chaos!"
"Spot on," Max said, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"How much do you need?" the man asked, eyes gleaming like a cat in the dark. "One, two, or maybe a dozen for zee grand performance?"
Max's voice dropped to business. "Twenty, if possible. And I want to set up a supply chain. If you can deliver to an address?"
"Vingt, eh? Twenty is no small order, monsieur. But for a client like you, I can arrange zat. Supply chain, you say? Très bien. We make sure ze smoke bombs arrive like clockwork—discreet, reliable, and on time. Just give me ze address, and consider it done. But, I must tell you, it will take some time to make… about two to three hours. Patience, mon ami, good things come to those who wait."
"I'll wait," Max said, his voice even. "I'll be back soon."
He stepped out of the shop and merged once more into the sea of vendor stalls—rows of tents and crates packed with strange oddities, obsidian knives, whispering scrolls, and creatures that blinked twice too slow. The scent of spices, old parchment, and something akin to wet copper mixed in the thick, humid air.
'With meeting so many new people, I should start keeping track of them at least.' Max thought, brushing shoulders with a cloaked woman selling bottled lightning. His eyes scanned for something simple—something small and unassuming.
Eventually, he found it.
A small brown notebook, worn at the edges, sitting quietly between more dazzling trinkets. It didn't shimmer or hum. It was modest. But it didn't end. He flipped through it—every page filled, then flipped again—new pages were there, clean, infinite.
"How much for this?" Max asked, holding the book up.
The vendor, an older man with a blind left eye and a long grey beard tangled with beads, looked him over. "For that old thing? 500 Crowns," he said with a dry rasp, almost as if testing Max's reaction.
Max didn't flinch. "Deal."
The vendor blinked. "Huh."
Transaction done, Max walked away, flipping the cover open as he went. The notebook hummed quietly and scanned his eyes with a faint glimmer. The pages inside were bone-white.
Max walked back through the haze and flickering lantern light until the faded curtain came into view. The same chalk mark still scrawled across it like a half-forgotten rune.
Inside, Villeneuve was hunched over a cluttered bench, fitting tight fuses into small, rounded bombs that looked more like black fruit than weapons. His fingers moved with a kind of old patience.
"What is zat brown book?" Villeneuve asked without looking up.
Max glanced down at the journal in his hand, surprised he'd brought it out. "I… don't know, really. Just felt like I needed it. Good to keep track of people."
A pause.
'Maybe it's the other Max,' he thought. 'My brain lights up when I see tech parts or scribbles. OCD maybe? Or something worse. Doesn't feel like me.'
"Ahhh… I see," Villeneuve murmured, tightening a fuse with a small flick of his wrist. "Ze instincts, they guide you, no? Sometimes ze hand reaches before ze mind understands."
"Yeah," Max said quietly. "Something like that."
Villeneuve gave a low chuckle, almost mechanical. "Ah, mais oui. I 'ave ze same problem too. You reach, and later you wonder why."
Silence settled in. The good kind. Max didn't mind it.
"Where are you from?" Villeneuve asked, voice casual but hands never pausing—pouring powders, twisting metal, like the question was just another ingredient in the mix. "Everyone ees from somewhere... and everywhere leaves a mark, mon ami."
"Right here. Valthesis," Max said, voice low.
"Countryside or big city?" Villeneuve tilted his head slightly, holding a tiny flame under a fuse to test it. "Makes a difference, you know. City folk run faster… but country folk? They've got a quiet strength. Always know how to find their way, even when things get messy."
"City," Max answered without hesitation. "My house is here."
"The black market?" Villeneuve raised a brow, a crooked smile twitching on his lips. "Not the most peaceful neighborhood, but… certainly one of ze more interesting ones."
"No... what? You have houses here… or apartments? Actually, I'm not surprised. My house is in the city," Max said, though a flicker of doubt crossed his mind. I hope it's in the city…
"Oh! My bad," Villeneuve said with a sheepish grin, holding up soot-stained hands like he was surrendering. "You never know these days—some folks call a cellar under a tavern 'home.' I don't judge, monsieur. Rent is high."
Max glanced up, curious. "Are you from the city of Eldora or the countryside?"
"Countryside. I loved eet there. Beautiful fields, clear blue skies, friendly people—people who sounded like me, oui. Demons destroyed eet though. As zey do." Villeneuve's voice carried a quiet sadness beneath its usual calm. "It was a good place, a nice place."
"Sorry to hear that," Max said softly. "I knew a guy who had his village destroyed by demons."
"It's tough. Makes people stronger, though," Villeneuve said, twisting the last fuse tight, his hands steady despite the weight in his voice. "Ze world breaks you sometimes, but sometimes zat is how you learn to bend without breaking, oui?"
Max nodded slowly. "Guess it does."
"It ees done. Try eet out, oui? You'll see, zat smoke will dance like ze morning mist over ze fields." Villeneuve handed Max the bomb with a satisfied nod.
"Just throw it down here?" Max asked, eyeing the small device in his palm.
"Ah, yeah. Won't hurt nothink, mon ami. Just a little puff of mystery to keep ze night interesting, oui?" Villeneuve's grin was infectious, soot smudged on his cheek like a badge of pride.
Max tossed the bomb lightly onto the ground. It detonated with a sharp pop and a sudden rush of thick smoke that swallowed the room for a fleeting moment.
"It will last for thirty seconds, give or take," Villeneuve said as the fog began to thin. "Depends on ze air, ze wind... Could be more, could be less, but always enough to make a good escape, oui?"
Max raised an eyebrow. "Are you a smoke bomb genius or something? I gotta learn some of your tricks."
Villeneuve chuckled, a sly sparkle in his eye. "Merci, but eet ees a trade secret, no? Some secrets are meant to stay hidden, mon ami."
"Maybe someday I'll learn from you," Max said, the thought of crafting his own gadgets stirring in his mind.
"Maybe," Villeneuve replied, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But for now, write down your address for ze package, oui? We 'ave to make sure ze delivery is smooth and discreet."
Max scribbled quickly. "Give it to Silas. He'll hand it over when it arrives."
"Information broker Silas?" Villeneuve asked, nodding thoughtfully.
"Yeah."
"He is friend," Villeneuve said slowly, approvingly.
Max gave a curt nod and turned to leave, stepping back into the murmur and shadows of the black market, heading towards Nexus.