The Crimson Room never invited you in for comfort. It slapped you hard, bruised you slow and steady, the kind of place that ached even when you tried to look the other way. The walls burned with a low, angry red glow, shadows clawing at the corners like they'd been fresh wounds someone hadn't bothered to dress. The air hung thick and sticky, heavy with the sharp tang of spilled blood, the bitter bite of burnt incense that had long since turned sour, and whispers caught just behind your teeth—promises that tasted like snapped twigs underfoot, brittle and doomed before they even left the lips. The room held onto its secrets like a junkie clutching a last fix. Every dirty deal, every bargain sealed through gritted teeth and broken trust, had left fingerprints smeared across the dust and cracks. You could feel it watching, waiting for the next fool to stumble inside and get tangled in its mess.
Lucien Blackmoore slid down into a cracked leather chair, the kind that had soaked up too many curses, threats, and desperate bargains over the years until the leather was stiff and the springs sighed with defeat. His fingers rubbed tired at the bridge of his nose—raw and chapped from hours spent grinding through tension that stuck like grit under skin. His coat hung loose on his frame, worn thin around the edges like an old map that had been folded and unfolded so many times it was marked with every escape route he'd ever chased and lost. Beneath his threadbare shirt, the Ledger thudded heavy in his chest. It wasn't just a book; it was a living weight, contracts and debts pounding like a heartbeat made of paper and ink, reminding him every second that everything had a price and the bill was due.
His eyes flicked sideways to the battered wood near the door, where Cassian's cipher had been burned deep into the grain. Sloppy. Reckless. Like the bastard didn't care who followed that trail. That was the exact kind of mess Lucien hated more than anything—crude, raw, a middle finger daring the world to come find him.
The scroll he'd picked up earlier twisted in his mind like smoke wrapped tight around a rock—thick, choking almost, full of half-formed threats whispered between the lines. It was a careless challenge thrown across the void, daring him to bite. Valthamur's voice cut sharp and cold, stabbing through the haze like an ice pick shoved into a cracked skull. "You've stirred something that doesn't want to be found, Lucien. Be ready. Not all shadows play fair." That voice was steel, snapping without a hint of mercy or hesitation. No room for mistakes.
Lucien let out a bitter, cracked laugh. It was dry, like a bad joke told too many times and beaten to death. "Not fair's been my middle name since I first learned how to breathe."
The door creaked open slow, tired, like it was begrudging its own movement. Jyn slipped inside, a shadow sliding through the red haze like she belonged to the dark, a part of the city's rotted heartbeat. Her wild dark curls tumbled loose, tangled and messy, framing eyes that burned with cold fire—the kind that only comes from clawing through lies and secrets and still managing to walk away on top. She moved like she owned every crack in the walls, every whisper hidden in the city's rotten guts, knowing exactly where skeletons were buried and how to pull them loose without leaving a trace.
"The room's buzzing tonight," Jyn said low, dropping a small holo-pad on the scarred counter with a soft thunk that barely broke the heavy air. Her voice was sharp, dry, carrying that amused edge like she'd seen every kind of nonsense this city spat out and had no plans to lose sleep over any of it. "Cassian's chaos isn't just scribbled on walls anymore. It's crawling through every feed, messing with signals, poisoning the noise. I hacked through the static and pulled some chatter you'll want to hear."
Lucien's grin cracked open, tired but razor sharp beneath the pressure pressing down on him. His fingers spun a brass watch lazily, catching the harsh red light in slow circles before he leaned down, squinting at the flickering holograms jittering over the pad like restless ghosts. "Jyn, sweetheart, this room's supposed to be my hideout, but tonight it's buzzing with ghosts. Dig up that intel, and I'll buy you drinks—hell, maybe something stronger if you play your cards right."
A sly curve tugged at her lips, eyes glinting with the promise of a challenge. "You always buy, Blackmoore. But this time, you'd better make it worth my time."
Lucien slouched back, rubbing his face as the holograms shattered the red haze, throwing fractured light across the sharp planes of his face. Deep shadows pooled under his eyes, bruises nobody gave a damn about. The messages scrolled fast—fractured codes, twisted voice clips, whispers about a syndicate move stirring beneath the city's rotted skin. Cassian's mark was everywhere. Sloppy but stubborn, like a stain that refused to wash out.
He jabbed a ciphered fragment with a rough finger, voice low and gritty. "This mess? That's Cassian's signature—half-finished chaos like he's scribbling with a hand that doesn't want to commit. But the real game's deeper. Someone's moving the pieces behind all that noise, and they've got his fingerprints smeared all over it."
Jyn's nod was slow but heavy, the crease of her brow digging in deeper. "Yeah, but this isn't just some turf war scrawled on a wall. It's bigger. He's reaching for something more... something that could blow the whole damn city apart."
Lucien clenched his jaw so tight he tasted iron on his tongue. The game was shifting, folding into cracks no one dared watch too close. The Ledger throbbed beneath his skin like a silent drum, promising he'd either outsmart this mess or get crushed beneath it.
"Time to sharpen the knives," Lucien muttered, voice rough but steady. "Cassian's sloppy ciphers might be trash, but I'm the house. And I don't fold."
Jyn's grin cut sharp, dangerous as a switchblade. Her eyes flashed with fire. "Good. Because this city's about to get a hell of a lot uglier. You're going to want every trick up your sleeve."
Lucien tugged his coat tighter. The worn leather creaked and stretched. His gaze drifted around the Crimson Room, the red haze settling over every scar, every whispered secret. The ghosts weren't quiet anymore—they rattled at the edges of his mind like a rising tide swallowing the shore. Stakes climbing, the pressure thick enough to choke on. But one thing was certain—he wasn't done. Not by a long shot.
Outside, the city throbbed with neon and menace—a restless beast breathing fire into the night. The distant echo of boots on cracked pavement came through the cracked window, a vendor shouting some curse to no one in particular, selling memories in tiny capsules that looked like cheap candy but tasted like pain. Lucien caught the sound and the faint weight of wet concrete under his boots, the smell of burnt ozone and fried circuits from a street stall just out of sight. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed, twisting and bending around the buildings like a desperate ghost.
He straightened in the chair, feeling that old spark flare sharp and alive deep inside him. The promise that had kept him breathing this long, the fire that drove him to outwit Cassian and claw back every damn inch of his empire. When the dust finally settled, it would be him standing in the crimson light, not that bastard.
The game wasn't over by any means. This game, was on fire.