Niko met up with the three men in the same dank, hidden base tucked away behind broken stone and slanted wooden beams. The air was musty and tight, the kind of place that crept under your skin. The men stiffened as soon as he entered. Their laughter died down and their postures turned rigid—not out of respect, but fear. Niko's presence felt heavier than before, as if the very shadows followed behind him, thick and watchful.
He said nothing at first, letting the silence stretch and smother. Finally, he spoke, voice low and direct. "We're doing this once. Don't mess it up."
The men nodded quickly, one of them almost tripping over his own feet to grab the ragged clothes. They tossed the garments at Niko, and one of them gave a half-hearted chuckle. "Gotta admit, kid, you're really about to look like something the rats chewed on."
Another added, "Don't get too comfortable. Might be your new wardrobe if this backfires."
Niko shot them a look so cold it cut through their jokes. "If I hear another word, I'll send your teeth down the gutter."
The laughter stopped instantly.
They dressed him in silence, rough cloth brushing his skin, itchy and tattered. The pants were ripped at the knees and held up by a frayed rope. His chest was bare, dirt smeared across his skin to sell the illusion. He looked like an abandoned orphan, something scraped off the street. One of the men, a lanky one with a twitch in his eye, wrapped the blindfold around Niko's head and tied it tight.
"You better remember who's in charge here," Niko muttered through gritted teeth.
"Yeah, yeah…" the man said, voice trembling ever so slightly.
With Niko bound and silenced, the men led him through the winding alleys of the city. The streets whispered around them. Distant sounds of night-life clashed with the darkness they were walking into. Niko stumbled purposely, playing the part, his muffled shouts of, "Where am I? Let me go! Somebody help!" echoing just enough to draw attention—just enough to bait.
Then, as if the world quieted for a beat, he arrived.
A figure stepped from the shadows.
The man wore a long black coat, hood pulled low. A glint of silver flashed under the dim light—a buckle shaped like a dragon.
"This the boy?" the man asked, voice hushed and guttural.
The three men nodded, one of them swallowing hard as he handed over the coin pouch. It jingled with a satisfying weight.
"He's clean. Nobody followed," one of the men whispered.
Niko twitched in mock protest. "Where are we going?! What is this?!"
The man stepped forward, calm and calculated. He reached into his coat and peeled off a strip of heavy black tape, pressing it across Niko's mouth in one quick motion. With practiced hands, he tied Niko's wrists tighter, looping the rope with swift efficiency. Then he tugged, hard.
Niko stumbled forward, led now by a stranger.
The man with the dragon buckle didn't speak again. He only walked, each footstep fading into the dark as Niko followed—bound, blindfolded, silent, but watching everything.
And the plan was just beginning.
Niko felt the shift immediately—a ripple in space, the subtle lurch in his gut that followed teleportation. His body swayed slightly, arms still bound tightly behind his back, the coarse rope biting into his wrists. The blindfold pressed against his face, muffling some sounds and distorting the light—but he could tell the world around him had changed.
The alley's cold, sour air was gone. Now the warmth of torchlight licked his skin, flickering with erratic heat. The terrain underfoot had shifted—what was once wet stone now felt dry, almost scorched. Hard-packed dirt beneath his bare feet, and the occasional crunch of pebbles. The place felt closed off, walled in by heat and shadows. He couldn't see it, but he felt it—like a cage made of air and silence.
The man in the coat pulled hard on the rope, forcing Niko to stumble forward before being shoved down to his knees. Dust clung to his skin. For a moment, the world was quiet except for the soft hiss of flames and distant murmurs, like the breathing of a sleeping beast.
Then—laughter. Sharp, amused, and hungry.
"Oooh, what's this little thing?" a voice called out from nearby, laced with cruel excitement. The sound of boots scraping against dirt followed, growing louder with each step. "Skinny runt, huh? Must've come from one of the deeper slums. They always cry louder."
The coat-wearing man responded in a voice as dry as cracked stone. "Yeah, thought I'd deliver something special. Pretty little thing, isn't he? Plenty of fight left in him too." He gave Niko a small kick to the side, enough to sting, but not enough to hurt. "We'll break that."
Another man approached—his voice heavier, more guttural. "He better not be too soft. I hate it when they pass out after a slap."
Then came a third voice, detached but curious. "Is this one going into the chamber?"
The first man—the one who bought Niko—let out a dark chuckle. "Eventually. Let the boys have their fun first. Once he's broken in, he'll be good for the chamber."
Niko's ears perked, his breath catching. The chamber?
The word echoed in his head like thunder in a tunnel. It felt loaded with meaning—something secretive, something terrifying. He didn't know what it was, but the way they said it made his stomach twist. Was it a prison? A fighting pit? A market display? Some kind of torture room?
What the hell is "the chamber"?
He kept his breathing even, his posture slumped just enough to sell the act. But inside, his mind sharpened like a blade. Every insult, every touch, every word—they were giving him time. Time to gather pieces, time to read the room. He needed to know what the chamber was. He needed to know how many of them there were. And most of all, he needed to wait for the perfect moment to stop pretending.
Because soon, the predator would stop playing prey.
Niko kept up the act—slumped shoulders, panicked breathing, eyes darting beneath the blindfold as though desperate for a way out. One of the men sneered and stepped forward, throwing a heavy punch into Niko's gut. Niko let the wind rush from his lungs with a convincing gasp, though in truth, the strike felt like little more than a tap. He staggered, crumpling slightly to one knee, playing the part of the broken, helpless boy.
"See that?" one of the men snickered, his voice gravelly with amusement. "Soft ones like this are always the easiest to process."
The other laughed in agreement. "He'll be perfect. We'll rough him up a bit more… have our fun, and then get him set up for the chamber."
Niko's ears sharpened. The chamber. That word again. What was it? Some kind of holding cell? An auction lot? Or worse—something surgical? He didn't know yet, but his gut told him whatever it was, it wasn't anything good. He filed the term away silently as the two dragged him along.
They hauled him into a room lit with low, golden lights. The air smelled sterile, yet tinged with something metallic—like cold steel and blood poorly cleaned. A medical cart clinked nearby, and somewhere to the left, a soft humming buzzed—machinery waiting to activate. The terrain underfoot was no longer the rough stone from before. It was now a smoother surface—polished floors, likely a makeshift facility deep within this hidden base.
"We'll get the procedure ready," one of the men muttered, now panting slightly from exertion. "Let's get him stripped."
As they began peeling away Niko's tattered garments, one of them paused. His brow furrowed as he inspected Niko's skin—smooth, unmarred.
"What the hell?" he whispered. "Where're the bruises? I hit him at least four times—"
His words were cut off by the sudden sound of ropes loosening. With a smooth motion, the bindings that had supposedly been tied tightly around Niko's wrists slipped off, unraveling like they'd never been knotted at all. The blindfold dropped to the floor with it.
The two men froze in confusion—just in time to see Niko's eyes open.
Black as midnight.
A chill swept through the room like a silent scream.
Before either man could shout or even step back, Niko moved.
One arm whipped around, seizing the first man by the throat. His grip was precise—cutting off airflow just long enough to make him collapse unconscious. With his other hand, he struck the second man in the gut, using just enough force to fold him over without killing him. A follow-up elbow to the base of the neck sent him down.
They hit the floor at the same time. Soft thuds in a quiet room.
Niko stood tall, brushing off dust from his arms. His body still looked like that of a malnourished orphan, but his stance, his aura—those told another story. He crouched, quickly removing the cloaks from the subdued men and sliding one over his own frame.
"Well," he muttered, slipping his arms into the heavy coat, "let's get to work… shall we?"
His voice was low. Cold. Calculated.
Behind his gaze was a single, burning thought:
"I'll burn this whole damn place to the ground if I have to."