Direfall: The Neon City

Chapter 1

The rain relentlessly pelted the slender figure as he swiftly navigated the teeming streets. Neon lights, their harsh glow reflected in the puddles and windows, painted the scene with a vivid palette of colors, transforming the city into a frenetic display. He adjusted his black baseball cap, shielding his face as he weaved through the bustling crowd. Towering buildings loomed above him, adorned with shimmering windows, flashing LED signs, and animated billboards peddling dubious wares.

Approaching the threshold of a district consumed by a deep crimson glow, the vibrance of the city vanished, giving way to dilapidated slums. Desperate shopkeepers called out from ramshackle stalls, while seductive escorts, their heavy makeup and long cigars creating an air of allure, lured unsuspecting souls into nearby brothels. Homeless individuals huddled next to makeshift fires fueled by scraps and cardboard, seeking solace amidst the desolation.

Pressing on, the man continued along the stretch of The Red Light District, infamous for harboring the destitute, the outcasts of society. This squalid domain was under the tight grip of Nadir, a notorious crime syndicate. Nadir sustained their reign through bribery, illicit activities, and the shadowy realm of money laundering. Their establishments, rife with debauchery, served as a lucrative source of income, with a significant share of the proceeds flowing into the pockets of Direfall's elite. Although the city was renowned for its opulent socialites and burgeoning technological advancements, few outsiders realized that corruption had built its foundations and continued to sustain its existence.

After a brisk walk, the man slipped into a narrow side alley, feeling his way along the rough brick walls until he found the one that concealed a secret entrance. With a subtle push, the concrete grated against the pavement, emitting a cacophonous screech as a hidden doorway materialized before him. Beyond lay a murky abyss, cloaked in shadows. Descending along a diagonal staircase, he braved the biting chill that assailed his face, eventually reaching a door adorned with a neon-green spider symbol overhead. The man discreetly rolled up his sleeve and presented his wrist to a scanning device beside the door. An identical spider tattoo, inked into his left arm, aligned with the scanner's red beam, emitting a confirming beep. As the entrance above the stairwell closed behind him, the metal door before him swung open with a resounding thunk.

Stepping through the door, he entered a bustling nightclub. The contrast to the eerie stairwell was astounding. The establishment thrived with a diverse cast of characters. Exotic dancers, both feminine and masculine, captivated the attention of sleazy old men. Loud music reverberated through the club, while individuals adorned in glowing face paint, eccentric hairstyles, and flamboyant attire danced feverishly on the pulsating dance floor. Toward the back, a bar beckoned. Making a beeline for it, the man encountered a familiar face: Lapis, the bartender, a childhood friend. Lapis, standing at 6 feet tall with almond eyes and brunette dreads, sported a plain black tee, ripped blue jeans, and a white apron tied around his waist. Lapis, beloved by the locals, presided over the revered Nightcrawler nightclub. Wraith nodded in greeting as he lifted his gaze, the fluorescent lights casting a revealing glow on his face, etched with scars and dried blood that seeped from his nose and trailed into his black jacket. The bartender ceased cleaning the mug in his hand, his smile evaporating instantly.

"Again?" he asked, genuine concern etched across his face. Wraith's gaze darted away from Lapis, his friend and confidant, as he swiftly ducked under the bar flap, disappearing into the sanctuary of the back room. Left with unanswered questions and a creased forehead, Lapis continued his duties, the muffled voice of a demanding customer punctuating the air as Wraith receded into the distance. Ascending a creaking staircase, he made a sharp left turn, finally reaching a thin curtain that he pushed aside with his arm. Before him lay a worn-out room, its cracked walls and broken window offering a glimpse of the vibrant crimson streets beyond. Rippled posters of acclaimed musicians and actors from the city adorned the walls, adding a touch of faded glamour to the somber surroundings.

With a tired sigh, Wraith sank onto his thin, yellowing mattress, causing the brass bedframe to emit a faint squeak. He hastily discarded his soaked jacket, flinging it across the room with a swish. The black windbreaker slumped in the corner, forsaken. Realizing that the collar of his white tank top had been tainted by the blood from his nose, he let out another groan of frustration. Removing his cap, he ruffled his short, ash-brown hair before placing it gently on the decrepit wooden nightstand. With a slight tug, he slid open the drawer, retrieving a small first-aid kit and arranging its contents beside him on the bed. As he extended his right arm, he scrutinized it with a mix of determination and trepidation.

The arm itself was a testament to his past, a grim reminder of a childhood accident that had cost him his flesh and left him with a bionic limb adorned with haphazardly attached metal plates. Some of the plates were now missing, exposing sparking wires that flickered unpredictably. Resting his arm on his leg, palm facing upward, he gripped a screwdriver from his side and meticulously removed the surrounding plates, his movements precise and methodical. Focused on repairing his arm, he was startled when the curtain was abruptly torn open, causing him to jolt in surprise. Standing in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, was Lapis, his expression a mix of concern and determination.

"Now," he began, pushing himself off the wall, "you have some explaining to do."

~ Hey guys, author here. This is my first story, so I am completely open to constructive criticism and tips if you have any. Thanks for reading!