The location of the job briefing turned out to be a peculiar one. Nestled deep within the gritty, desolate slums of the south side of Neopolis, the forgotten school-ground seemed an unlikely spot for a professional gathering. Particularly for a man of such a high caliber as Cole Palmer. As Damien navigated his motorcycle through the labyrinth of abandoned buildings, he wondered about the purpose behind this strange choice of location.

The closer he got to the destination, the clearer the reason became. The dilapidated school stood as a haunting reminder of the government's neglect towards its own people, with the south side bearing the brunt of this abandonment. The entire area had been left to rot and decay, a telling metaphor for the elite’s attitudes toward the poor, and a great spot to keep from prying eyes and ears. It would be a meeting out in the open, with no one around to actually care.

With some extra time on his hands before the meeting, Damien had delved into research on the person who set up the request for bodyguards: Cole Palmer, the CEO of Harkwin Industries. His findings painted a picture of a man with grand aspirations, rumored to be on a quest to merge multiple corporations into one formidable conglomerate under the moniker, "The Doruba Group." He’d seen pictures of the old CEO in public meetings with other top executives from the field of biocybernetics, and he’d been left unimpressed. Palmer looked like a stock image of a businessman approaching his twilight years. Bland and inoffensive, he could have appeared in every commercial catering towards his demographic. Yet he was the one displaying powerful ambitions. Ambitions that may involve TrillTech, and by extension, Horaka.

Pulling up to the main entrance of the decrepit school, Damien parked his motorcycle near a rusted chain link fence and made his way towards the school yard. The basketball court was cracked and overrun by defiant weeds, and the main building, where the coordinates specifically targeted, loomed ominously before him. The city lights had been shut off in this area, and the only illumination came from the distant glow of the city center. The eerie ambiance added to the mysterious nature of the meeting to come. All things considered, it was a fitting location for a covert and possibly dangerous mission.

Damien sized up the figures huddled at the meeting spot. Four bodies were sprawled across the cracked concrete steps, separated into two duos. A pair of identical hard-faced men were on one side – twins, no doubt. The other side held a waif-thin guy and a fresh-faced girl who looked wildly out of place in this shady corner of the city. A fifth man, blazer-clad with a dark mohawk, paced nearby, puffing on a cigarette. His eyes flickered icy blue as he murmured lowly to himself, the city’s distant hum swallowing his words.

Damien claimed a spot at the center of the frost-kissed steps, feeling like a new kid in an unfamiliar schoolyard.

In no time, the young woman shuffled over. "Heya there," she chirped, a gentle timbre that cut through the gritty backdrop. "You're new. One of Val's latest hires?"

Damien bobbed a nod in response, opting for silence over revealing too much to a stranger.

"Yeah, figured. Bodyguard circles are small – newbies stick out. I'm Jinny." She extended a hand, gesturing to her lean companion. "This is Slim."

"Ghost," Damien returned, clasping her hand and acknowledging Slim with a curt nod.

Jinny jerked her thumb at the silent twins and leaned closer. "That's the Haynes duo. They won't so much as look your way till you earn your stripes. Don't let it get to you, they're top-notch bodyguards. All told, we've got a good bunch for this gig, whatever it turns out to be."

"And him?" Damien inclined his head towards the pacing smoker.

"Beats me. First time I'm seeing him too. Bet he's the one to give us the briefing– oh, damn." Jinny's words faltered, her gaze shifting to a new arrival on the scene.

Slim seemed to shrink in on himself, muttering, "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"What's up?" Damien questioned.

"Guess I jinxed us," Jinny said, her eyes on the new figure. "That's Red-Eye Rex. Complete chauvinist and overall total bastard. Slim, did you ever clear things up with him?"

Slim's complexion turned an unhealthy shade of pale.

Rex, bathed slightly in the distant neon lights, looked every inch the hardened brawler. His solid build spoke of physical prowess, but it was his eyes – or the lack thereof – that captured Damien's attention. Where his eyes should've been, a single, ominous strip of luminescent red spanned Rex's face. Still, he maneuvered as though his sight was impeccable.

His smirk was predatory as he bee-lined for Slim. "Well, well, well. The weasel appears. For the sake of everyone here, tell me you've got my money."

"I told you," Slim protested, hands raised in a placating gesture, "every penny I've got goes to my sister's medical bills. I showed you the receipts. She's on the brink, man. I promised to repay you, plus interest."

"Couldn't care less about your little sob story. Let the bitch die if it means I get my funds." Rex's threatening presence loomed over Slim, ready to strike.

Slim shrank back. "Just give me a bit more time, man. Come on."

"Ease up, Rex," Jinny interjected. "Slim's a straight shooter. He wouldn't exploit his sister's illness."

"I don’t remember asking for your fine little ass a damn thing. Let the men handle business," Rex spat, keeping his eyes, or lack-thereof, on Slim.

Jinny folded her arms, defiant. "Start trouble here and we all lose the job. You wouldn't dare."

"Watch me," Rex snapped back, hoisting Slim off the ground with a single hand. "So what if this job ends? There are plenty others. I'll have peace of mind."

Indignation surged in Damien. He wouldn't, couldn’t, let this job be compromised. He jumped to his feet to confront Rex, but a powerful grip latched onto his shirt before he could react. His instincts kicked in; one hand seized Rex's shirt, the other found the hilt of his katana.

"The fuck’s your problem?" Rex snarled, the luminous red bar on his face blazing.

"He said he'd pay. Back off."

"Not your business."

"Actually, it is. This job is my business, and you're threatening it."

"That's enough," a new voice intervened. It was the blazer-clad man who'd been pacing earlier. "Let go of each other right now or you're all off this job."

Gritting his teeth, Damien let go. Just like Marcus always said; too many assholes in Neopolis. Rex, though, didn't loosen his grip, the bar of red glaring at Damien. After a pause, however, he let go only to shove Damien back onto the steps.

Damien teetered on the edge of retaliating, but he managed to swallow his rage and his pride. This wasn't the time or the place. More important things were at stake than his bruised ego.

"Sit," the man in the blazer commanded.

"I'll stand," Rex shot back instantly.

The man flicked his spent cigarette away, hands in his pockets, feet wide apart, an undeniable symbol of authority.

"Like I said, I’ll stand. Are we starting this briefing or what?"

In response, the man simply locked gazes with Rex. After a moment, he spat on the ground, never breaking eye contact. Finally, he addressed the entire crew. "My name is Dallz and I work for Mr. Palmer. You've been hired for one simple reason. Someone's put a bounty on my boss's head, and a group of assassins plan to collect. Your job is to stop them."

* * *

The neon lights of Neopolis buzzed in the distance as Red-Eye Rex moved like a shadow through the city's grimy alleyways. Hours later and the events of the meeting still simmered in his mind, the taste of disrespect lingering on his tongue. He had barely contained his rage against Slim, but then that newcomer, "Ghost" or whatever he'd called himself, stepped in. That shit-head had pissed him off more than he cared to admit.

"Should've given him a taste of my rage right there and then," he muttered to himself, flexing his fingers.

His gaze locked onto a figure a few paces ahead, barely illuminated in the dark alley. Slim. Beanpole fucking Slim. ‘I can’t pay right now ‘cause my sick bitch of a sister,’ Slim. The bastard was all alone, a rat skulking in the darkness. Fucking perfect.

Rex felt a smile stretch across his face, a predatory thrill coursing through his veins. Oh, he'd relish this. No job was worth tolerating disrespect for this long. Time to cull the weak.

"Slim," Rex called out, his voice echoing off the grimy brick walls. The figure froze in its tracks, visibly tensing.

"Rex," Slim replied, his voice shaky. "I told you, man. I'm good for your money. Just need time."

"I'm not a patient man, Slim," Rex moved closer, his boots scraping on the damp concrete. The neon lights played a devil's dance on his red strip of a vision, giving him a sinister aura.

In a sudden swift movement, Rex's hand shot out, seizing Slim's throat. His victim choked, his feeble hands clawing at his iron grip. Pleading eyes bore into Rex, but they only stoked his malicious enjoyment.

"You’ve run out of time, rat," Rex growled. “You’ve disrespected me for far too long.” The palm of his hand opened, bringing his weapon forth from within his arm.

Slim’s eyes widened in terror, his struggles intensifying, but Rex only tightened his grip. Oh, this was the release he had craved. The satisfaction. The reassertion of his dominance.

He let the blazing tip of his weapon edge itself slowly into Slim’s throat. The rat tried to shriek but his muffled sounds barely got anywhere. Slowly, ever so slowly, the edge dug in deeper and deeper as the blood starting trailing down his arm, the life being drained from his target.

Slim tried desperately to claw his way out, but it didn’t work. It would never work. A rat can’t escape the clutch of a lion. Soon enough, Slim’s body went limp and completely lifeless, and Rex dropped him like a broken toy, satisfaction pulsing through his veins.

"Job's open, Ghost," he chuckled to himself, slipping back into the shadows. "Behave yourself or you’re next."