Vengeance

01

The cabbie's a smart man. He accepts the fare and the generous tip, both of which come in the form of a crisp fifty dollar bill, with a muttered "thanks" and speeds away. He's been a cab driver in Metro City long enough to know that when chauffeuring a fare into the Gallows there are certain things you don't do or say. You don't say "what's a nice girl like you doing in a neighborhood like this."; you don't inquire about their business; you don't look too closely at the money you're handed, and you get the hell out before your windshield is sprayed with bullets.

Seraphim throws her duffel over her shoulder and turns to face her new home, at least for the foreseeable future. The original structure was red brick, three stories high, narrow, and probably built sometime in the twenties when this part of "The Forsaken City" still had hope. Sometime in the fifties or sixties the plot next door was bought and an extension was added in white stone combining the two buildings.

Much of the red and white stone is covered in colorful streaks: graffiti, the camouflage of the asphalt jungle. Seraphim's eyes roam over the layers of gang signs, artistic expression, and teenage rebellion.

Her gaze flickers to the street number printed on the white framing that surrounds the double door, 2487. The once golden letters are pitted and the 7 is one strong breeze away from falling off.

Seraphim ascends the cracked and chipped concrete steps, her swinging duffel bag knocks against the rusted and loose railing. She reaches for the doorknob of one of the scratched and water-damaged doors. It jiggles, requiring two hard jerks before releasing.

The scent of stale water and age invades her nostrils as she takes her first steps inside. Seraphim looks around. The popcorn ceiling is stamped with watermarks and in some areas falling or breaking away. The cheap linoleum floor, once white, has yellowed and begun peeling. The wallpaper, a dismal yellow, is in a similar state.

Seraphim's gaze pauses at the banged and beaten metal mailbox mounted to the wall. It contains about a dozen individual mailboxes marked with the apartment letter and number.

Seraphim tears her attention away from the mailbox and the hall the neighbors it to opposite wall. The unmarked door is adorned with a cheap curved knocked. She makes her way over to it and lifts the slim metal piece, knocking it twice against the wooden door.

The door swings open a minute later. Seraphim is greeted by an elderly lady with puffy white hair and the stench of cigarette smoke. She wrinkles her nose, but gives no other visible sign of her disgust.

"You the new tenant? The one that had the mattress delivered?" the landlady asks, her voice coarse from decades of heavy smoking.

Seraphim nods.

The woman looks her over, unimpressed. "Wait here."

The landlady vanishes down the hall and Seraphim can hear her rummaging around. The sound is partially drowned out by a daytime soap opera playing on her TV.

She returns, a lit cigarette dangling from her lips and a key in her hands. She holds it out for Seraphim. "Rent's due first of the month, you pay or get out. Don't make any trouble and don't break anything."

Seraphim snags the key from her hand, giving a curt nod. She reaches in her leather jacket and hands the landlady a bulging envelope. The woman takes it and peers inside. Her eyes widen as she flips through six months worth of rent.

Without a word Seraphim turns and walks away. If there's one thing that can be said about the Gallows it's that the people know how to mind their own business, which is why she chose to move here.

Seraphim glances briefly at the key and tag attached to it. D4. She starts up the stairs, the ancient wood creaks and wobbles beneath her weight. Her hand skims over the railing. At the first break in the stairs she finds apartments B3 and B4.