The Fourth Layer was forbidden ground.
No official routes led here, and no public transports stopped this deep. Getting in—or out—required favors, bribes, or the kind of reputation that made people look the other way. It was where Connection City buried its failures, its excesses, and the people who no longer fit anywhere else.
There was no real light.
Only neon.
Broken signs flickered endlessly, painting the metal corridors in sick shades of pink, violet, and electric blue. Steam drifted through the air like low fog, catching the glow and twisting it into restless shapes. Shadows had no clear edges here—everything bled into everything else.
Most of the people Ironhand passed were augmented.
Not the polished, refined implants of the upper layers, but cheap body mods—exposed joints, unstable optics, poorly sealed neural ports. The kind that kept a person functional, but at a cost.
The Fourth Layer was full of Whiplashes.
People whose low-quality body implants slowly poisoned their blood, corrupted their nerves, and pushed them toward something less than human. Most of them were already in the first stage of transformation—twitchy movements, dulled empathy, hunger that never fully went away.
Leaving the Fourth Layer was difficult.
Living in it was worse.
As the transformation progressed, one symptom became unavoidable: the craving for blood.
Human blood.
It was why the difference between the upper and lower layers wasn't just economic, but physical. In the upper layers, implants were a mark of beauty—clean lines, enhanced symmetry, artificial perfection. Down here, implants were survival tools, and unaugmented bodies stood out.
Especially women.
An implant-free woman in the lower layers was rare—and dangerously noticeable.
Cheap implants poisoned the blood. Everyone knew that. The cheaper they were, the worse the contamination. And that poison made the blood useless to those already transforming.
The Nosferatu were different.
Most of them were second-stage Whiplashes, halfway through the four stages of transformation. Far enough that their bodies had changed, but not so far that their minds had collapsed.
The reason was simple.
They drank blood.
Not randomly. Not carelessly.
Blood acted as both a stabilizer and a drug for those undergoing transformation. It slowed neural decay, soothed the violent impulses, and sharpened the senses. But it was also addictive—especially when taken regularly.
And the quality mattered.
Blood taken from women was stronger.
Blood taken from implant-free women was intoxicating.
That was the problem.
In the Fourth Layer, implant-free people were rare. Life was harsh, disease was common, and most children received implants almost immediately after birth just to survive the environment.
Yet somehow, the Nosferatu always found fresh blood.
Because of that, they rose fast.
In a place ruled by hunger, addiction, and decay, they became organized. Powerful. Untouchable.
Within a few short years, they had turned into most powerfull family in the lower layers—not through force alone, but through control of the one thing everyone needed and feared.
Ironhand moved through the neon-lit corridors without drawing attention.
He hadn't come looking for trouble.
He had come to listen.
And in the Fourth Layer, Blood Sugar was where whispers eventually became truth.
The bouncer's implants screamed as power surged through them.
Hydraulics hissed. Metal plates locked into place.
He raised his arm, massive and final, preparing to bring it down with the certainty of someone who had never lost a fight on the Fourth Layer.
Ironhand didn't step back.
He didn't brace.
He didn't even change his expression.
Instead, his metal arm shifted.
There was a dry, mechanical click—subtle, almost polite.
Panels along his forearm slid apart, seams unfolding like a secret the world was never meant to see. Steel reconfigured itself with brutal elegance, the limb reshaping not into a fist—
—but into a rifle.
Before the bouncer's punch could fall, the barrel shot forward, extending with surgical precision.
It slid straight into the man's open mouth.
The bouncer's eyes widened—not in fear, but in disbelief.
Ironhand leaned in just enough for the neon light to catch his face.
"You should've asked," he said calmly.
The shot detonated inside the man's skull.
There was no dramatic spray. No scream. Just a violent, final collapse as the implants kept twitching for a heartbeat longer than the brain could justify.
The body hit the ground.
Metal clanged against concrete.
Silence followed.
Ironhand's arm retracted, folding back into a limb that looked almost human again—almost.
Without sparing the corpse another glance, he stepped over it and reached for the door.
It opened.
Neon spilled out, thick with smoke, blood, and music that throbbed like a living thing.
Ironhand walked into the bar.
The bar was carved into steel and concrete, its walls sweating oil and steam. Ironhand's eyes were immediately drawn to the massive cage in the center of the room.
Inside it, creatures fought.
They had once been human. Now they were third-stage Whiplash—bodies twisted by cheap implants, bones reinforced with scrap metal, faces stretched into something barely recognizable. Teeth too long. Eyes too empty. They tore into each other while the crowd screamed for blood.
As Ironhand watched, someone collided with his shoulder.
He turned.
A hooded figure, face hidden behind a mechanical mask, muttered an apology and moved on quickly. Something about the posture felt familiar—but Ironhand dismissed it. Whoever it was, they were trying not to be noticed.
He had other business.
His gaze shifted upward.
At the far end of the bar, overlooking the cage, was the suite. The best view in the house. Ironhand headed for the stairs.
At the top, Grim Nosferatu waited.
The head of the Nosferatu family lounged against the railing, two companions beside him and two women draped over the furniture like decorations. Grim tilted a glass of fresh blood back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as Ironhand approached.
The atmosphere tightened instantly.
Grim's men reached for their weapons. One of them had an entire face replaced by implants, metal plates stretching where skin should have been. The other had a single arm grotesquely oversized with heavy combat augments. Grim himself was worse—both arms and legs reinforced, ears elongated, skin pale as bone. Whiplash had twisted him into something closer to a vampire than a man.
Ironhand raised a hand slightly.
"I didn't come to start a fight," he said calmly. "Just to talk."
Grim studied him, then laughed.
"So you're Ironhand," he said. "How did you get in? What's my guard doing?"
"He tried to stop me," Ironhand replied. "I stopped him."
Grim laughed harder.
"Give this man a chair."
A seat was dragged forward. Grim gestured with his glass.
"Blood?"
"No," Ironhand said.
"I have questions," he continued. "You bought a pressure weapon recently. And you made sure people heard about it."
Grim leaned closer, eyes glinting.
"You really are as bold as they say," he said. "But answers aren't free. Let's have some fun first. I've always wanted to see what the famous Ironhand can really do."
Ironhand didn't answer right away.
Then he nodded once.
Grim's smile widened.
Moments later, Ironhand was escorted down to the cage entrance.
The announcer's voice boomed across the bar.
"Ladies and gentlemen—tonight's matches have changed! We have a special challenger! The ghost of the city itself—IRONHAND!"
The crowd roared.
"And facing him," the announcer continued, voice shaking with excitement, "the undefeated beast of this cage—MORDOC!"
The ground trembled as Mordoc entered.
The Whiplash was massive, swollen with steroids and illegal enhancements. Nothing about him was natural anymore. He locked eyes with Ironhand—and charged.
The cage door slammed shut behind them.
Mordoc didn't wait.
He rushed forward, every step cracking the floor. A massive fist came down like a wrecking ball. Ironhand ducked at the last moment—the blow shattered a steel beam behind him.
The crowd screamed.
Mordoc turned far too fast and backhanded Ironhand into the cage wall. The bars bent inward. Ironhand coughed once, wiped blood from his lip, and smiled faintly.
Mordoc roared and charged again.
Ironhand stepped forward—unarmed.
He slipped inside the swing, drove an elbow into Mordoc's throat. Sparks flew. A knee collapsed reinforced plating. A sharp twist snapped an exposed cable in Mordoc's arm.
The giant howled.
The announcer was screaming now.
"HE'S DISMANTLING HIM—BARE-HANDED!"
Mordoc made one final, desperate charge.
Ironhand waited.
At the last second, he sidestepped, grabbed Mordoc's head, smashed it into the cage bars—once, twice—then pulled him down and drove his fist into the center of Mordoc's chest.
The Whiplash core cracked.
Mordoc froze… and collapsed.
Silence.
Then the bar erupted.
"IT'S OVER!" the announcer shouted. "MORDOC IS DOWN! YOU ARE WITNESSING A LEGEND—IRONHAND!"
Ironhand stood alone in the cage.
No weapon. No celebration.
Above, Grim Nosferatu laughed softly.
Now, he was listening.
The noise of the bar slowly settled, though the air still vibrated with excitement. Ironhand returned to the suite, the crowd parting instinctively as he passed. Above the cage, Grim Nosferatu waited, watching him with renewed interest.
Ironhand took his seat again.
"You didn't answer my question," he said calmly. "Who did you want to hear that message?"
Grim leaned back, swirling the blood in his glass.
"The upper levels."
Ironhand's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Why?"
Grim's smile faded. His voice hardened.
"Because they believe the power belongs to them," he said. "They think the balance is fixed. That the city will always bend in their favor. It's time they realized the scales are shifting."
He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, toward the layers far above.
"While we rot down here without sunlight, they live in comfort. And worse—they drag the Fourth Floor into their filth. Every crime they don't want traced. Every failed project. Every mistake." His fingers tightened around the glass. "They throw it down here and think that makes it disappear."
Ironhand leaned forward slightly.
"You said they use you as test subjects."
Grim's expression darkened. His voice dropped, thick and uneven.
"One of the companies has been taking people from the Fourth Floor for a while now," he said. "Most of them come back."
A pause.
"And the ones who do," he continued quietly, "are never the same."
Ironhand didn't interrupt.
"Which company?" he asked.
Grim exhaled slowly, thinking.
"What was the name… the one founded by that professor who split from Fate Industries." He snapped his fingers. "Icarus Inc."
Ironhand committed the name to memory.
"One last thing," he said. "That pressure weapon. Have you used it?"
Grim let out a short, humorless laugh.
"Of course not."
He leaned closer.
"I know Icarus has an informant on the Fourth Floor. Buying that weapon and making noise about it was deliberate. I wanted the message to travel. I wanted it reported back."
Ironhand studied him.
"So it was bait."
"From the beginning," Grim replied. "And recently, we found one of their informants. We made an example of him. Hung his head where everyone could see it."
Ironhand nodded once.
"I know," he said quietly. "Pressure weapons have been a declaration of war since the Unification Conflict."
"Exactly," Grim said.
Ironhand hesitated, then asked one final question.
"For someone like you," he said, "why does the Fourth Floor matter so much? You profit from its misery—yet you claim to protect it."
Grim's composure cracked.
"Do you think I chose this?" he snapped. "Do you think I wanted implants in my lungs before I could even speak? Or to kill my first man at four years old?"
His voice trembled with anger.
"This system made me," he said. "And you know as well as I do—if you want to change the system, you have to enter it first."
He straightened.
"Since I became what I am, people down here eat. They have shelter. They have protection. I've erased other families to make this level safer. And if I step away from the underworld, I lose the resources to do any of that."
Ironhand listened.
"When your only choices are drowning in filth or learning to swim in it," Grim finished bitterly, "you swim."
Before Ironhand could reply, the doors opened.
Grim's men dragged a woman into the suite.
"She was trying to listen," one of them said.
Ironhand's eyes widened slightly.
Elizabeth.
"She's with me," Ironhand said immediately.
Grim raised an eyebrow.
Ironhand stood.
"Thank you for the information," he said. "We need to talk."
Grim studied them both, then waved a hand dismissively.
"Go," he said. "We're done here."
Ironhand turned, guiding Elizabeth toward the exit.