Laço Azul

Faith arrived in Blackmare, in Voxburn, on February 20th, 1983, and already hated the city before the taxi even pulled away. They should have told her Voxburn was industrial, full of factories and smokestacks — the typical ugly but functional place. But instead, what she found was a mix of rot and neglect that smelled like sewage and stale fried food. The driver charged her double and dropped her on a narrow street where the green neon lights of a bar called “Lucky Seven” flickered every three seconds, always failing the “S” and leaving “Lucky even” glowing against the darkness.

Voxburn had entire buildings abandoned, windows boarded up with black-painted plywood, welded iron doors, and “FOR SALE” posters so faded they had become part of the grey plaster. The city changed owners the way it changed weather: fast, without warning, and anyone who couldn’t keep up was left behind. When an area rotted enough for nobody to claim it, it became perfect for someone like Faith.

She had settled into an empty one-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of a building in Blackmare, in a block where there were only two kinds of residents: old people who barely moved anymore and stray dogs that had stopped barking years ago. The balcony — if that cracked concrete ledge deserved the name — overlooked an inner courtyard crammed with torn black trash bags, wheel-less bicycles, and a brown couch so soft it looked like rats had eaten through it. The elevator had a handwritten sign: “OUT OF ORDER SINCE OCTOBER.” Faith had stopped counting how many months had passed since then.

Still, it was a roof. And it had a lock that worked.

The problem was getting in and out without being seen. Every time she climbed the stairs she risked crossing paths with the old man from 3B, who spent the day sitting by his door with a radio blasting, or the woman from 2A who looked at her sideways as if Faith owed her explanations. And if anyone decided to ask why a stranger girl with deep dark circles under her eyes walked around with a black backpack and the face of someone who hadn’t slept in days… well, that conversation could go somewhere uncomfortable.

So many nights it was easier to sleep in a warehouse near the docks, where the smell of rotten fish hid the scent of fuel, or in the public park, on a wooden bench hidden behind bushes, wrapped in her leather jacket with her backpack under her head.

The reason she was in Blackmare was called “Lobo” from Puerto Rojo. The kind of man who believed shouting louder meant being right, and that controlling people was as simple as owning cars, guns, territory — and Faith.

They had worked together for eight months. He planned jobs — some good, most too ambitious — and Faith executed them because she was good at what she did and because Lobo paid on time. The last job should have been simple: break into a military complex in Puerto Rojo, steal three pallets of classified electronic equipment, and leave before dawn. Lobo had spent six weeks selling it as “the heist of the decade” — saying they would get rich, untouchable, that they could disappear and live like kings for years.

Faith should have gotten suspicious when he started talking about “kings.” Men like Lobo never disappeared. They liked being seen too much.

The heist went well for exactly seventeen minutes. Then someone — Faith still didn’t know who — triggered a silent alarm that wasn’t in the plan. Guards appeared from places that were supposed to be empty and opened fire on everything. One of Lobo’s men fell face-first onto the ground, blood spreading slowly like spilled paint.

Faith escaped through a ventilation window on the second floor she had memorized three days earlier “just in case.” Lobo used to call her paranoid. That paranoia saved her life.

He found her at the agreed warehouse two hours later and told her she had ruined everything. That she had triggered the alarm on purpose. That she didn’t deserve the money.

Faith tried to explain. He didn’t listen and shot her three centimeters from the heart — close enough that she still felt the phantom burn whenever she breathed deeply — making it clear that their partnership had ended in the worst possible way.

She survived out of pure stubbornness and a ridiculous amount of luck, and ended up in Blackmare trying to hide from ghosts that never stayed far enough away. In the mornings she ran along the docks, where fog swallowed the sounds of the city and turned containers into giant shadows. In the afternoons she stayed in the apartment or wandered the streets, eyes scanning every corner before turning. At night she split her time between cheap bars — drinking beer alone — and hidden alleys where crowds gathered to watch underground fights. A perfect place to go unnoticed: everyone watched the makeshift ring, nobody watched the corners.

In Voxburn, small gangs controlled entire streets with the subtlety of a wildfire. Mafia families had names spoken only in low voices — Whitmoor, Voss, Moretti — and old rivalries kept the city in constant tension, like a rubber band stretched seconds away from snapping.

Anyone who wanted to make a name in crime eventually passed through there. Blackmare worked like an urban survival test: either you endured the pace, learned the unwritten rules and rose… or the city swallowed you without a trace.

The last to try was Marco “Scar” Dalmasso. He came from the North with half a dozen men, a stolen truck painted dark blue, and the delusion that he was going to claim a slice of the docks. He said — loudly, always — that he would impose order on the smuggling routes, that bars would start paying him protection every Friday, and that within six months even the oldest families would have to bow to him.

He spent entire nights bragging about it at the “Red Anchor,” his white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his hairy chest, a gold chain around his neck, his right hand resting ostentatiously on a chrome pistol tucked into his belt — as if the metallic shine alone was enough to scare anyone in Blackmare.

Three weeks later, they found him tied to a wooden chair in the middle of Dock Square — without a tongue, without eyes, and with that same chrome pistol shoved into his mouth.

Nobody knew for sure who had done it — whether it was the Whitmoor, the Voss, or simply someone who had grown tired of Marco’s constant noise. And nobody asked too many questions either.

Faith heard that story seven times in two weeks: in the bar, at the laundromat, even on a bus where two old women whispered about it while holding their grocery bags. The message was clear. Blackmare could be the perfect place to grow in crime, build a reputation, earn respect… but it was also where mistakes were paid for quickly and publicly. And that was exactly why Faith didn’t want to get involved in anything. She wanted peace. Time for her shoulder to heal completely — and, above all, for the military base heist to be swallowed by time.

If Blackmare did one thing well, it was forgetting. As long as you didn’t draw attention to yourself.

---

After three weeks, the routine began to feel too stable to last. Faith knew how these things worked: the longer nothing happened, the closer trouble usually was.

One night in March, she walked out of a burger place called “Big Bill’s,” her fingers greasy and her stomach finally full. She had eaten a double cheeseburger, salt-soaked fries, and washed it down with Coca-Cola. As she crossed the poorly lit street, she noticed three bikers leaning against shiny Harleys parked along the sidewalk.

The symbol stitched onto the backs of their black leather jackets was unmistakable: a skull biting down on a wrench. Iron Howlers. A gang from Crackstown known for running over anyone in their path and causing chaos just for the hell of it.

Faith shrank into her leather jacket and kept walking, eyes fixed ahead. It was a basic rule in Blackmare: if you didn’t look, you didn’t exist.

It didn’t work.

— Well, look at this lost little doll! — shouted the first, with a dragged Southern accent, vowels stretched like chewing gum. — Bet she doesn’t know anyone around here!

Faith felt a strange twist in her stomach. The way they looked at her… it wasn’t curiosity. It was calculation.

— She looks like she’d enjoy a ride on our machine — said the one with greasy shoulder-length hair and a patchy beard, spitting a brown ball of saliva onto the pavement.

The third — shorter, with a snake tattoo crawling up his neck — pulled the chain wrapped around his right wrist, metal links clinking together.

— Or maybe… — he grinned, revealing a broken tooth — …the girl just needs a few lessons in respect.

Faith was tired of the last few months. Tired of hiding. Tired of grown men who thought they could say whatever they wanted just because they moved in packs. One of them was old enough to be her father.

She zipped her jacket to her neck and kept walking, pretending they didn’t exist.

— Not talking to us, sweetheart? — laughed the greasy-haired one.

Faith heard heavy boots pounding against the asphalt behind her. They had left the bikes and were coming after her. She turned down the first dark alley and stopped halfway.

She took a deep breath and slipped her hand inside her jacket.

— Hey, doll, don’t run! — yelled the first, running toward her. — We just wanna talk!

Faith pulled out the suppressor and screwed it onto the modified gun with a dry, satisfying click. She waited, back against the brick wall, the weapon hanging loosely at her side.

— Yeah… talk — added the second, breathless, stepping into the alley. — First we talk… then we have a little fun…

The third guy opened his mouth to say something stupid, but Faith had already raised the pistol. Two shots to the first man’s chest. One to the second’s forehead. The third lifted his chain, but dropped with a hole in his throat before he could scream.

It was so fast they didn’t even realize they were dead.

Three bodies. Seven seconds.

— Idiots — Faith muttered, holstering the weapon.

Killing wasn’t new to her. Maybe that was what scared her most when she stopped to think about it: the ease with which she pulled the trigger. No trembling. No hesitation. No immediate guilt. Just that cold, automatic focus that always appeared when life demanded quick decisions.

The first time she had vomited for twenty minutes and her hands shook so badly she could barely hold a bottle of water. The next times… less so. And now? Now it was almost like brushing her teeth.

When she stepped out of the alley, she found a man leaning against a dark green 1972 Ford Fairlane, its chrome bumper shining beneath the nearest streetlamp.

He looked like he had stepped out of another era. Around sixty, maybe. Grey hair neatly combed with pomade, parted to the side. Brown suspenders over a crisp white shirt, beige linen trousers with a sharp crease. A cigarette burned between his fingers.

Faith pulled deeper into her jacket, determined to pass without giving him attention. The last thing she needed was conversation with strangers. But his voice cut through her steps:

— That’s Blackmare for you. A city that chews up those who don’t know how to play… and makes disappear those who think they’re bigger than they are.

She stopped and turned.

— What do you want?

The man exhaled smoke to the side and looked her up and down.

— You’re more interesting in person than the reports suggested.

Faith felt her jaw tighten. She bit the inside of her cheek and squared her shoulders.

— And what exactly did you hear?

He dropped the cigarette, crushed it under his polished brown shoe, and pushed himself off the car with the posture of someone who had all the time in the world.

— My name is Yuren Elias. I deal in business that doesn’t appear in contracts or newspapers. Information, debts, disappearances… — he paused. — People like me keep this city moving even when it looks still.

— I don’t see where you’re going with this.

Yuren gave a tired half-smile, without real humor.

— Don’t be naïve, Faith. A month ago you did something half the circuit is still talking about. Breaking into a military base and walking out alive? That doesn’t happen every day.

Faith’s stomach tightened as if someone had shoved ice inside her. The weight of the past had finally caught up to her after three weeks of silence.

— You must be confusing me with someone else.

Yuren shook his head as if he had just heard the most predictable excuse in the world.

— No. I’m not. Some things don’t just disappear, kid. Not with the kind of noise you made.

Her heart began to race.

— Well… you should forget it. Because I’m not who you think I am.

He slipped a hand into the inside pocket of his coat, pulled out a white card, and held it out between two fingers.

— I’m not interested in convincing you now. Think about it. When you’re ready… we talk.

Faith looked at the card. Then at him. She felt apprehension, distrust… and a tight knot in her throat she refused to acknowledge.

After three seconds that felt too long, she reached out and took it.

— Fine — she slid the card into the inner pocket of her jacket and inhaled slowly through her nose. — But if I ever call… it won’t be to ask for favors. It’ll be to settle scores.