I adjust the civilian clothes I've procured. They're simple, unremarkable garments that won't draw attention like my uniform would. The cilice remains wrapped around my forearm beneath my sleeve, the barbs biting with every subtle movement.
The sting is a constant reminder of my purpose. Of what I fight for. And the fact that once all is said and done, I must atone for every action. Every omission.
The entrance to the black market is marked by nothing more than a rusted metal hatch partially hidden beneath a collapsed building. Two bored-looking guards stand nearby, casually checking those who enter and exit. I could take them both down in seconds, but stealth serves me better here.
I hand over a few coins when they extend their palms, not bothering to speak. They barely glance at me before waving me through. Such lax security. This entire operation should be razed to the ground.
The corridor descends sharply, the air growing colder and danker with every step. The poorly maintained lighting illuminates little more than the thick layer of grime clinging to the walls. All it takes is one look around to know that if Cosima did end up here, it was out of sheer desperation. She enjoys the finer things in life, and this is the polar opposite.
I emerge into a vast cavern that stretches farther than seems possible underground. Stalls and makeshift shops crowd every available space, with narrow alleyways snaking between them. The noise and stench is instantly overwhelming. Bartering, arguing, laughing, and music blaring from establishments I don't care to identify.
The very thought of Cosima being forced to endure this cesspit makes my blood boil.
And the monster, the one Lex described…
Is it still hunting her?
I can't help but think of the monster she's always described in her dreams. I never believed those were real visions of something that actually exists. And yet I find myself praying in spite of everything that it's only a coincidence.
Because in those dreams, it killed her.
I force my rage down, lock it away. Emotions cloud judgment, and I need my senses sharp.
"Fresh meat, weapons, pleasures of the flesh!" a vendor calls out as I pass. "Whatever poisons your soul craves, friend!"
I ignore him, shouldering through the crowd. Eyes follow me. Suspicious, calculating, predatory. I'm an outsider, and they can smell it. Much like a pack of wolves can smell prey.
But I am no prey.
I stop at what appears to be an information booth, where a beta with more tattoos than visible skin sits hunched over a flickering terminal.
"I'm looking for someone," I say without preamble.
The beta doesn't look up. "Aren't we all."
I place a handful of coins on the counter. That gets his attention.
"Nikolai Vlakov," I say. "He operates out of the airfield. I have reason to believe he's come here."
The beta's eyes dart to the coins, then back to my face. He shrugs. "Never heard of him."
Lying. His pupils dilate and he shifts slightly in his seat.
"I'm also looking for an omega," I continue. "Silver hair, violet eyes, in her twenties. Vrissian. She would stand out, even in a place like this."
A light enters the beta's eyes. Recognition. My heart rate increases, but I keep my expression neutral.
"Haven't seen anyone like that," he says, turning his attention back to his terminal. "Though if you're looking for a silver-haired omega, we've got some at The Alabaster. Wigs, but good enough you won't know the difference."
It takes every ounce of self-control not to reach across the counter and crush his windpipe. The very suggestion that I would settle for some facsimile, some pale imitation of my mate, is beyond insulting.
"I'm looking for a specific person," I say coldly. "Not a replacement."
The beta shrugs again, scooping up the coins. "Can't help you then."
He's still lying. But pressing further here would only draw attention.
Seething, I continue through the market, stopping at various stalls under the pretense of examining wares while gathering information. Most vendors clam up when I ask about Vlakov or an omega matching Cosima's description. Some nervously glance toward what I assume is the direction of whoever runs this operation. Others simply pretend not to hear me at all.
