#Chapter 153: Red Room Red Hands

Richard We breached the blood market at 03:07, three levels beneath the old textile district. No insignia, no front signage, just a freight elevator that opened into the back of a faux wine cellar. The air hit thick and sweet, metallic and cloying in a way that clung to the roof of my mouth. There were crates stacked shoulder-high, most unlabeled, some marked only with crescent-burned wax seals. The scent was wrong before we even stepped out of the lift. Old blood. Burned plastic. Adrenaline, faint but present. And something else, something rancid, chemically preserved. They didn’t fight. Most were too high to stand. The ones still lucid folded the second they saw the Royal Guard insignia. Or maybe it was me they recognized. Either way, it didn’t matter. They went down fast. No glamour. No last-ditch rituals. Just stunned looks and sloppy confessions, the kind that spilled out before they even realized they’d started talking. A few tried to lie, but even that broke apart fast. No