Subterranean Vault – Logistics District, Upper Northreach. 01:30 AM.
The air inside the basement of one of the Upper District's logistics warehouses was stagnant, heavy with the scent of damp stone and the metallic tang of static electricity. Light was a luxury provided only by a single, flickering chandelier that swayed rhythmically, casting long, grotesque shadows that danced across the weeping stone walls. At the center of this cold sanctuary, a man named Bahlil was bound tightly to an iron chair, his limbs secured by glowing silver restraints infused with static mana-circuits.
Bahlil was no common street-thug or low-level informant. He was the Iron Empire's primary field sabotage coordinator, a man who had successfully embedded himself within the city's infrastructure for months. His face was a map of bruises and dried blood, but his eyes—bloodshot and wide—still radiated an unyielding, fanatical hatred that no amount of physical pain could extinguish.
