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— 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.
Then his gaze landed on me. "And him?"
"Me?" I tilted my head.
"You got anything to offer?"
The question wasn't just about trade—it was a test. They wanted to see if I belonged.
I exhaled, stepping forward. The black market ran on transactions, on value. Money and goods weren't the only currency here—skills were just as valuable.
Instead of speaking, I reached into my pocket, pulled out a stack of bills, and made a show of waving them before closing my fist around it. "If you're looking for buyers," I said smoothly, "then I think you're going to want me inside."
For a moment, I thought he'd call my bluff. But after a long silence, the guard grunted. "Fine. Don't start trouble."
And just like that, we were in.
The underground market was a maze of neon lights, flickering signs, and the scent of burnt metal and sweat. Stalls were crammed into every corner, hawking everything from stolen military hardware to experimental cybernetic implants.
It didn't take long to realize something unexpected—Anthony fit in better than anyone.
While Milan and I were carefully maneuvering conversations and analyzing the crowd, Anthony was already deep in discussion with a group of smugglers. He slipped into the environment with practiced ease, laughing, shaking hands, blending in as if he had been here for years.
"This guy," Milan muttered, watching as Anthony patted a vendor on the back. "It's like he was born for this."
I wasn't sure if that was a compliment or an insult. Either way, it worked.
We split up. Milan went with one of his operatives to investigate the main suppliers, while Anthony and I focused on the enhanced weapons. If the prototypes were here, they'd be in the hands of someone willing to sell them for the highest price.
The deeper we went, the darker the deals became.
At one stall, a merchant displayed a row of vials—glowing liquids that promised enhanced reflexes, increased strength, resistance to pain. Illegal enhancements. They were fakes. But regardless, this was a sign that the prototypes we were looking for were close.
Then we found something worse.
A live demonstration.
A man stood in the center of a makeshift ring, breathing heavily, his veins pulsing with an unnatural glow. His opponent, a heavily armed man, shot him. But the enhanced man didn't care as if he couldn't feel pain. He slowly walked forwards, mouth full of foam, and in one brutal motion, he shattered the other man's arm like it was made of glass.
The crowd erupted in cheers. Bets were placed.
Anthony leaned in. "That's not some street-level boost. That's engineered."
I nodded grimly. The prototypes had to be close.
We pushed further, asking questions in the right places, making ourselves known. Eventually, someone took notice.
A dealer—a man with slicked-back hair and a predatory grin—gestured for us to follow him.
"I hear you're looking for the good stuff," he said, leading us toward a secluded back room.
Milan and the others were already waiting inside. The room was small, lined with reinforced walls, a single metal table in the center. The dealer sat down across from us, two armed bodyguards standing at his sides.
With a flick of his wrist, he opened a case.
Inside were the prototypes.
Rows of neatly packed enhancers, each one more advanced than anything we had seen before. These weren't just black-market knockoffs. These were the real deal.
I exhaled slowly. "Where did you get these?"
The dealer smirked. "Does it matter?"
He leaned back, clearly enjoying himself. "Supply chains are a tricky thing. Let's just say they fell off the back of a very expensive truck."
I studied him, then glanced at Milan.
We weren't going to get a straight answer .
The plan had already been set.
Milan gave the signal.
In an instant, guns were drawn.
Anthony had his weapon trained on one bodyguard before the man could even react. Milan had the other covered. The rest of the team locked down the exits.
The dealer stiffened, eyes flicking between us. "Bad business move," he warned. "You don't want to make enemies here."
I leaned forward, lowering my voice. "I'll take my chances. Now—who was the buyer?"
The dealer hesitated.
The room went silent.
Milan exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. "Yeah right."
But the dealer's expression didn't change. He was either telling the truth—or he was very good at lying.
Either way, we needed answers.
Anthony, still grinning, holstered his gun and clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry, boss." He turned back to the dealer, his eyes dark with something sharper than amusement.
His voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it.
"Extracting information?" Anthony's smile widened. "That's what we do best."