The air hung thick with ghoul stink and mildew, laced with stale alcohol and a faint, sulfurous tang. A radio struggled to play Anything Goes amid the clamor of the Ninth Circle. Ghouls—some locals, some unknown—gathered to celebrate the Prince of Vice's birthday. If anyone remembered, they would know they had already toasted to his "birthday." The only one sober enough to remember was the bodyguard, who lingered against the wall like weathered decor.
Ahzrukhal, the owner of the Ninth Circle, was in high spirits that evening. His mood matched the lively atmosphere of his club. He had upgraded from his tattered tan suit to a burgundy one; the change was less dramatic than it seemed in his head. The fabric still bore remnants of the past. Stains told tales of deals gone awry and spilled drinks from forgotten nights. The suit clung to him, its seams straining at the edges, threatening to give way at the slightest movement. But none of that mattered to Ahzrukhal. At that moment, he was the undeniable star of the show, a vibrant focal point in the heart of his crumbling domain. With a confident grin, he raised his glass high as he reveled in the attention of his folk.
The proprietor's allure was intoxicating. He held the key to their fleeting moments of liberation—a charismatic dealer who peddled their favorite vices. But Ahzrukhal was also the mastermind of their torment, the source of their dependency. All who entered the Ninth Circle were hellbound and damned. They craved the darkness that promised solace as they returned for more.
"Here's to good drinks, better chems, and the finest company on this side of the wasteland!" Ahzrukhal declared with a grin. "And, of course, to me—the one who always keeps the good times rolling."
A few half-hearted groans echoed from the corners of the room. No soul dared to voice their dissent louder; the fear of expulsion was real. Ahzrukhal remained unfazed. He lounged at the center of the gathering, a commanding presence amidst the unease. Why should he worry? The Ninth Circle was his domain, where he held absolute sway. He watched with a smarmy smile, confident they would crawl back to Uncle Ahzrukhal for more.
"Cheers!"
As if by unseen forces, the ghouls raised their glasses in eerie sync. Their clinking resonated throughout the room, the echoes fading into the humidity. They toasted their prince and the poison that kept them there.
The party brought their prior level back as they mingled with one another. The bodyguard's gaze cut through the horde of ghouls, his face unreadable. Shouts and shrieks of laughter seemed muffled under the weight of his presence. A faint, acrid scent tugged at the back of his throat, something unsettling that he couldn't quite place. He shook it off, blaming the stink in the Ninth Circle that stuck to the walls like Nuka-Cola syrup. Ahzrukhal seemed oblivious to it, reveling in the crowd's adoration.
"Hey, Uncle Ahz!" a ghoul slurred. His broad, toothy grin gave him an air of self-satisfaction. It was as if he'd had too many drinks before arriving. "Where's that Zap?" he asked, eyes glinting with mischief.
The room vibrated with excitement. Ghouls swayed, their voices raspy. They croaked in unison, "Where's that Zap?" Some pounded their gnarled fists on the wooden tables. The sound echoed with a thunderous intensity throughout the space. Others leaned forward, eyes wide and gleaming with anticipation. They clutched their tattered caps as if they held the key to the moment they all craved. Ahzrukhal gestured with solid emphasis, arms slicing through the air with a forced and cheerful grin. "Calm down, calm down! You'll all get your turn if you can manage to show a little class," he called out, his voice carrying over the crowd's din. Yet, as their chatter grew, he dropped his charming uncle act. Frustration crept into his voice. "Shut the fuck up, or no one gets anything!" The last thing he needed was Dr. Barrows poking around and asking questions. The doctor could ruin a good time faster than a bad batch of supplies.
He approached the shipment his bodyguard had carried in with a determined stride, his expression darkening with each step. The pungent odor assaulted his senses before he even laid eyes on the source. Ahzrukhal recoiled and curled his lip in disgust. The smell wafted from the shipment like an unwelcome guest. While the scent was unpleasant and far from ideal, it hardly seemed worth stressing over. After all, the foul smell wouldn't end this celebration; his flock was oblivious to the stench. They were also too desperate for a high to complain.
"Damn it, Simon," he muttered, frustration in his voice as he crouched down to pry open the large wooden box. With a grunt of effort, he hauled the product into his arms. "Bet he stored it next to a dead brahmin again, the idiot. It'll burn clean enough once they light it." Ahzrukhal made a mental note to have his heavy deal with the supplier later. Cutting corners on chems and alcohol was regular business. But Ultra Jet? What a sin, downright fucking sloppy. One never messed with a ghoul's Ultra Jet.
The host refused to let the smell of the tainted delivery dampen his spirits. With an effortless movement, he deposited a heaping armful of inhalers onto the bar. His grin widened as caps tumbled across the countertop. Some rolled off and clattered against the warped linoleum floor. Desperation filled the air as decayed hands pawed at the Ultra Jet they had paid for. They didn't even notice the foul odor. Some felt the effects immediately, their bodies shaking with the rush. Others held their prize with a death grip, their eyes looking empty and eager.
Charon stood silently, his gaze on the chaos. The room pulsed with energy, with caps and chems exchanging hands in a flurry. Despite the noise, he maintained neutrality, his face betraying neither disgust nor sympathy for the individuals swirling in the hazy mess of commerce.
The room felt off-kilter. The odor clung to the air, weaving through the noise, while Ahzrukhal remained unaware. Charon couldn't tell which was worse—that there was a new smell or that Ahzrukhal didn't care about it. He had learned long ago that it wasn't his place to voice his concerns or disrupt the moment. His duty was silent vigilance. The seen and unseen sentinel lurking beyond the periphery in all the commotion. He pressed his back against the wall, bracing for what might unfold.
Charon scanned the room as the party raged on, the noise rising to a fever pitch. Amidst the havoc, the distinct hisses of Ultra Jet popped throughout the bar. Wet, hollow gasps followed as patrons dragged the 'Zap' deep into their decayed lungs. For a moment, an eerie stillness settled over the crowd. Their bodies shuddered. Then, spasms rippled through their limbs as the chem worked its magic.
The atmosphere thrummed with an unsettling energy. Bodies swayed, limbs jerked in erratic bursts, caught in a dance that seemed to defy reason. Some reveled in the moment, masking their creeping discomfort. Others laughed until it became harsh, coughs that strained their throats. A figure lurched, clutching their chest in a panic. Yet, the party persisted.
Tension snaked through Charon's frame, a sense of unease creeping into his mind. His gaze shifted to the chest-clutching ghoul, still struggling to keep up with the rest of the crowd. Charon's fingers twitched at his side. He had a feeling he wouldn't be standing idle for much longer.
His eyes swept over the room and locked onto his employer, who was mid-puff on Ultra Jet. His face betrayed a flicker of disdain for the first time in a long while, though no one was paying any attention. A scoff almost escaped him. Since when did Ahzrukhal dip into his inventory? Before Charon could stew on it, he caught the end of a chat between Ahzrukhal and an upset customer.
"See?" Ahzrukhal rasped, his voice gravelly and strained as he coughed. He extended his hand, returning the battered inhaler, worn and slick from repeated use. "It's fine! Best in the wasteland." His grin was a fragile mask for his uncertainty. Charon recognized the hollow bravado all too well. It was the kind that Ahzrukhal put on when peddling chems that even a brahmin wouldn't touch. The customer hesitated but finally accepted it as he took the Ultra Jet. Ahzrukhal's rotting face displayed smug satisfaction—another satisfied customer.
Charon's attention returned to the first ghoul, his brow furrowing with concern. The ghoul hunched over, his gaunt frame trembling as he fought to catch his breath. Charon pushed himself off the wall as he prepared to weave through the bodies to check on the ghoul. As he stepped forward, the surrounding mayhem erupted. Nearby, another ghoul succumbed to a violent coughing fit. Each ragged gasp cut through the air.
His head jerked toward the unexpected noise, and a warm mist splattered against his arm. Without flinching, he let his gaze drift downward, examining the mess inflicted. Blood spattered across his sleeve, with dark streaks pooling in the folds of his jacket. A lurid warmth seeped into the fabric, and the copper stench hit him a second later.
A loud, hacking cough shattered the heavy air, followed by another, each echoing off the walls. It was as if a pot of popcorn had been set ablaze, with coughs popping up everywhere, each more violent than the last. The atmosphere in the bar grew heavy with sweat and sickness, and people's chests heaved with each ragged breath. People stumbled and staggered into each other, their eyes wild with fear and confusion. The crowded scene descended into complete madness.
At that moment, Charon knew what he needed to do. The towering ghoul moved through the growing insanity and toward his employer. His shoulders coiled with tension as he barged through the struggling users. A wet cough erupted from Ahzrukhal's throat before he could react to Charon coming at him with intensity. Blood splattered from his lips to his pale, decayed hand as he reached up to cover his mouth. To his shock, whatever had claimed the junkies had also taken hold of him. He immediately regretted taking a hit of the Ultra Jet. How was he supposed to enjoy his hard-earned profit now?
Charon moved with purpose as he hauled Ahzrukhal onto his shoulder with grace. As he made his exit, the ghouls' rasping and breathless pleas grated against his ears, fading into the chaos behind him. He didn't look back. There was nothing he could do for them, or so he told himself. But the thought clung to Charon, sharp and unrelenting. He pushed the door open with his free hand to reveal Underworld's relaxed, stagnant air on the other side.
A swarm of ghouls tumbled out after him. They gasped for breath, inhaling the air almost foreign to their rotting lungs. The frenzy was beginning to attract attention. Curious Underworld residents, far from the Ninth Circle's revelry, paused. They watched the misery unfold before them, unsure how to approach or help.
Their surprise turned to shock at seeing Charon carry Ahzrukhal down the stairs. A dreadful—though perhaps expected—catastrophe had struck the Ninth Circle. The small crowd wasn't too surprised by that, but by the sheer number of people who had hurt themselves. Trouble seemed to cling to the Ninth Circle and Ahzrukhal like a shadow.
Pandemonium surged through Underworld's halls. Hacking coughs mingled with hurried footsteps and desperate wheezes. The uproar soon infiltrated the Chop Shop's sanctuary. Panic spread like wildfire, engulfing everything in its path. The once-quiet corridors now echoed with the sounds of fear and desperation.
Dr. Barrows emerged from the clinic first, his brow furrowing as he entered the disarray. His penetrating gaze honed in on the unfolding situation that demanded immediate attention. Nurse Graves followed him, her quick steps echoing the gravity of the situation. "What in the world is happening here?" Barrows snapped, demanding order amid the turmoil.
The once-arrogant owner of the Ninth Circle now looked like a shadow of his former self. He was slack and drained of vitality, even by ghoul standards. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. A hush fell as they realized.
"All of them?" a voice trembled from the back with disbelief. Another ghoul shook his head. "Idiots, all gone…" Whispers of lament grew, a dirge that followed Charon as he sought the doctor's help.
Graves rushed to intercept them as her clinical instincts activated. "Set him down," she commanded, her voice sharp yet professional.
Charon lowered Ahzrukhal to the ground with a surprising gentleness, contradicting his towering frame. He stepped back, his eyes betraying only the faintest flicker of emotion. Disgust? Resignation? It was hard to tell.
Barrows knelt beside the crumpled ghoul, his hands already in motion as he assessed the damage. Blood had stained Ahzrukhal's lips, and his chest heaved with difficulty. Even for a ghoul, his pallor was unsettling. The doctor's frown deepened with every detail he took in. Straightening, Barrows turned a withering gaze toward Charon. "What the hell were you all doing up there?" he demanded, his voice low and cutting.
Charon said nothing, a response in itself. Barrows scoffed, his frustration spilling over as he crossed his arms. "Of course. Not a damn word. You were with him, weren't you? His so-called bodyguard." He spat the title like a curse. "Fuck that contract, you could've warned someone. You could've done something!"
Charon didn't flinch, didn't speak. The words rolled off him like water off a rock, but his jaw's slightest flicker of tension betrayed his thoughts. He knew Barrows wasn't wrong. Could he have done something? Probably. Could it have stopped this? Unlikely. But none of that mattered now, not to Barrows and not to the dead ghouls lying in heaps upstairs.
Returning from the Chop Shop with a stretcher, Nurse Graves stepped in with a steady but firm voice. "Dr. Barrows, we don't have time for this. If we're going to save anyone—"
Barrows cut her off with an abrupt wave of his hand. "Save? Do you think anyone is walking away from this?" His tone was biting as he gestured toward the few ghouls who had stumbled out of the Ninth Circle. Most slumped against the walls. Their mottled skin streaked with blood from violent coughing fits. A faint wheezing echoed from a few survivors. Their glassy eyes and convulsing bodies left little hope.
"This," Barrows gestured to the bodies, his voice tight. "is a massacre. They're gone. And your boss? He's next." He jabbed a finger at Ahzrukhal, who let out another wet, gurgling cough, spraying more blood onto his already-stained suit. A grim twist of irony: at least he'd dressed for the occasion.
Graves's hands trembled as she gripped the stretcher, her professional mask cracking. "So—" Her voice caught, but she shook it off. Emotions needed to stay to the side for the time being.
"Everyone who inhaled that shit is already as good as dead," Barrows continued. "I'm not wasting what little we have to save people who fried themselves chasing a high!"
Charon's shoulders tensed at the words, but he remained still. He'd heard enough accusations to know when defending himself was futile. He moved with deliberate precision as he stooped down to lift Ahzrukhal back onto his shoulder. His movements were slow, almost methodical, as though some dignity remained to salvage.
Barrows's eyes narrowed. "Where the hell do you think you're taking him? You think there's some miracle cure waiting in my Chop Shop for this idiot?"
"No," Graves answered for Charon, knowing well he wouldn't respond. "But we can ease his pain. That's still worth something."
Barrows clenched his jaw, the muscles twitching. It seemed like he was ready to argue with her, but he exhaled with a sudden intensity instead. "Fine. Bring him in. But Charon? That cesspit upstairs has done nothing but rot this place from the inside out. And you? You've done nothing to stop it. Don't bother sticking around. As soon as he's dead, I want you gone."
The words landed like a death sentence, but Charon didn't so much as blink. He carried Ahzrukhal through the Chop Shop doors, his expression unreadable. Behind him, Barrows turned to Graves, muttering under his breath. "Half the community, gone. Fuck!"
Graves nodded. She looked at the slumped bodies near the Ninth Circle's entrance with regret. The silence in Underworld was deafening. The only thing to puncture it was the faint wheezing of the dying. For a community built on survival, the loss was massive. Outcasts, addicts—no matter what they had been, they were still part of the whole.
Compared to the rest of Underworld, the Chop Shop was rather refreshing and easier to breathe in. Charon lowered his employer onto the stretcher without a sound and stepped back. Graves began to work, her hands moving with practiced efficiency on Ahzrukhal. His chest rose and fell, each labored breath a tenuous thread between life and death. His grip on life loosened, and her resolve tightened. Despite his fading pulse, she persisted. Her hands worked with unwavering effort, offering comfort. She wouldn't stop, couldn't stop. His last moments would know only her steadfast care.
As he turned to leave, a hand caught his arm.
"None of this was your fault," Graves murmured, her voice a whisper.
Charon paused, the words hanging in the air between them. He didn't look at her, didn't respond. Instead, he pulled his arm free with deliberate calm and walked toward the door. The contract had always been his armor, a shield that made him untouchable. Now, it felt like dead weight—paper, flimsy against the lives lost tonight. Death had always followed him like a shadow he couldn't shake. But tonight, it weighed heavier than ever, dragging at every step as he left.