The foreman—Devin—pointed him toward the far end of the loading bay without a second glance.

"Stack those sealed containers onto the pallets. Keep the labels facing out."

He walked away without explaining further, already barking at someone else across the room.

Francis moved.

The station looked simple enough. Just rows of sealed containers waiting to be organized.

He worked at the pace of someone still getting used to the job.

About twenty minutes in, a shoulder brushed against his.

"Are you the new guy?" a young man asked, grinning from ear to ear. He looked to be in his early twenties, with cropped hair and a split lip.

"Yeah," Francis nodded.

"How’d they get you?"

"Found me wearing one of their jackets."

The young man chuckled.

"That’s a new. One of the guys here got pulled in just because someone offered him a meal when he had nowhere to go."

Francis kept stacking. "The homeless people?"

"They call them spotters. They’re everywhere—not just this district. I heard there are at least seven or ten of those camps spread across the outer rings of the city..."

"...They get paid in food and a place to sleep. Most of them don’t even know what they’re actually doing."

Francis said nothing, giving him space to continue.

"My name’s Rowan, by the way. And you?"

"Frank. They took you from the street too?"

"Yeah. I spent three weeks under a bridge after I lost my job and got kicked out because of my debts. Then they picked me up and said they would pay me good money."

"So did you get paid?"

"Yeah. The pay here is even better than construction work outside. The only downside is we can’t just leave without permission."

Francis nodded in understanding. He started to see how the group worked.

They kidnapped people who had almost nothing left for them. Then they offered money to keep them cooperative.

It kept things simple, and the work still got done despite their condition.

"How long have you been here?"

"Four months. I was able to leave here twice already. I only came back because the money is great."

Francis stacked another container and kept his expression neutral. Even this young man had been pulled in by greed, just like most of the others here.

’So they’re all trash, huh. That just makes it easier for me.’

"Who runs this place? Just the bikers?" Francis inquired.

"Wolf Clan runs things here. Moving product, keeping workers in line, making sure nobody does anything stupid." he set a container down harder than necessary.

Francis waited.

Rowan glanced toward the foreman before continuing.

"They’re not the ones you should be worried about. It’s the one above them—the Dark Chain. That’s what I’ve heard people call it."

"What do they do?"

Rowan let out a short breath through his nose.

"What don’t they do." He kept his eyes forward. "Drugs. Weapons. Bodies. Everything that moves through this city moves because they let it. This lab is just one piece."

He shifted the container he was holding and lowered his voice further.

"I’m only telling you because you look like someone who already knows how this works. And because you’re going to figure it out anyway. Just don’t go asking questions out loud. Not here."

Francis nodded, then asked another question.

"How are they getting away with this? The city has a lot of military force."

"You’re right. But they’ve got people rumored to be as strong as high-ranking Defense Force agents, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the local government is on their payroll."

A small half-smile formed on Francis’ lips. To others, it only proved how untouchable the organization was.

To him, it looked like a stocked supply of high-value targets waiting to be taken.

They kept working while Francis tried to squeeze more information out of Rowan, but the young man only revealed surface-level details.

It seemed he would need to interrogate Vance before killing him. Not a problem. There were many ways to make him talk.

Few hours later, Rowan was already breathing hard.

"Man, what did you do before coming here? You’re not even out of breath," he groaned.

"I’m used to lifting heavy stuff,"

The loading bay stayed busy, but the pacing slowly shifted as time passed. Everyone was conserving their energy.

When the bell sounded, it signaled the end of their work.

"Listen up," the foreman spoke louder. "Dinner tonight is beef stew, and you all get one free cola. So enjoy it."

Everyone’s faces lit up.

"Nice."

"Finally, real food."

"Beef stew again? I’ll take it."

"Man, I’m hungry. Can’t wait to eat."

"I swear, this is the only good part of the job."

On the surface, all the workers sat outside on rough wooden benches, the kind often seen at campsites.

Unlike the tense atmosphere underground, the workers laughed around the table. A sense of camaraderie had formed after staying in the same conditions for so long.

It was also common for them to talk about what they would buy when they got a break.

Some planned to buy cars once they got out. Others talked about spending their money on hookers and so on.

Few tried talking to him, but he only gave short replies.

Mid-chew, he glanced at his energy level. It had climbed over twenty points.

"Time for bed." The roll call started at half past eight.

A guard walked the perimeter with a clipboard, reading names.

When the count finished, another member gestured toward the quarters’ side entrance with his chin.

No explanation was needed. Everyone already knew the routine.

They moved in a single line through a corridor, heading toward their assigned rooms.

When the bulb clicked off, the room fell quiet. One by one, they went to sleep, worn down from the day’s work.

Francis lay on his back and closed his eyes.

He didn’t really sleep. Instead, he let his body rest while staying slightly aware, part of his mind kept working in the background and counting time.

[Energy: 28/70]

[Energy: 44/70]

[Energy: 51/70]

The numbers climbed in the dark.

[Energy: 70/70]

His eyes opened.

10:30 PM.

He sat up slowly, setting his feet on the floor without sound.

The first man was two cots down. Mid-thirties, already on his side with one arm hanging off the edge of the cot.

His breathing was the deepest in the room—the kind that came from exhaustion and stress.

Francis moved beside him and touched the man’s forehead with his pointing finger.

Pop.

His finger punched straight through. Blood and brain matter spilled onto the bedsheet.

’That’s one.’

He moved to the next, ending each life with the same brutal and efficient method.

When it was done, he stood in the center of the room and started feeding.

He used only his grip strength to tear the organs free, pulling out the livers one by one.

[Human Liver Consumed +1]

[Human Liver Consumed +1]

[Human Liver Consumed +1]

[Human Liver Consumed +1]

[...]

Low-value returns, as expected.

But numbers were numbers, so this little encounter was not for nothing.

He licked his fingers clean, then headed out of the door.

The night had just started for him, but for everyone else, it would be their last.