Sol strolled through the bustling streets of the Main Market District, weaving through merchants, traders, and wandering customers with ease. The city-ship never truly felt real to him—not in the way Galvaris Prime had. It was too strange, too grand, too impossibly alive. Yet, here he was, walking its streets like he belonged.
His destination, Marlowe's Provisions, wasn't far now. He adjusted his grip on the hover-cart, keeping it steady as he took in the sights and sounds of the market. The scent of sizzling meats mixed with the crisp tang of metal from nearby cybernetic stalls. Traders shouted over each other, haggling fiercely, and alien languages interwove into a symphony of commerce.
Despite his relaxed posture, Sol remained aware of his surroundings. He hadn't forgotten what Rhett and Lena had told him. Someone was watching the bar, paying attention to its supply lines. He didn't know who, but he wouldn't let his guard down.
Finally, he reached his destination. Marlowe's Provisions was tucked into a corner of the district, a sturdy-looking shop with wide windows showcasing various imported goods. The sign above the entrance flickered slightly, but the name was clear enough.
Sol pushed open the door, a small bell chiming as he entered. The interior smelled of spices, dried goods, and aged liquor. Wooden shelves lined the walls, stocked with everything from rare ingredients to high-end spirits. Behind the counter stood a middle-aged man with gray-streaked hair, sharp eyes, and an apron that had seen better days.
"Ah, you must be the new delivery boy," the man said, setting down a ledger. "The old man finally hired someone with a backbone?"
Sol smirked. "Something like that. Got a delivery for you."
Marlowe nodded, stepping around the counter. "Good. Let's get it unloaded."
Sol helped transfer the crates, stacking them where instructed. Marlowe inspected each one, grunting in approval. "Everything's in order. The old man knows quality."
"That he does," Sol agreed. He dusted his hands off and leaned against the counter. "So, Marlowe, you've been in business for a while, right?"
Marlowe gave him a sidelong glance. "Long enough. Why?"
Sol shrugged. "Just curious. Been hearing things. Some people are paying extra attention to Lover's Bar."
Marlowe's expression darkened slightly. "You hear that from Rhett and Lena?"
"Maybe."
The shopkeeper sighed, rubbing his temple. "It's not surprising. The old man's kept his business clean for a long time, but that doesn't mean people don't want a piece of it. Could be rivals, could be someone thinking he's sitting on something valuable."
"You think it's going to be a problem?"
Marlowe folded his arms. "It already is, if people are talking. You seem smart, kid—keep your head down and do the job. The less you get involved, the better."
Sol nodded, but the advice didn't sit right with him. He wasn't the type to ignore things that could turn into a threat later. He let the conversation drop for now, though, knowing he wouldn't get more out of Marlowe today.
After settling the paperwork, Marlowe handed him a small pouch of credits. "For the delivery. The old man already covered your wages, but consider this a bonus."
Sol accepted it with a grin. "Appreciate it."
Then, with zero shame, he flashed Marlowe a charming smile. "You know, I have a feeling we're going to be good friends."
Before Marlowe could respond, Sol's hand moved like lightning, and the pouch of credits vanished into his pocket so fast the old man blinked in surprise. Marlowe stared for a second before shaking his head with a chuckle. "You're a real piece of work, kid."
As he stepped out of the shop, he exhaled slowly, his mind already racing through what he had learned. If Marlowe knew something was brewing, then it was only a matter of time before it reached the surface.
But he was ready for whatever it was to come.