The balcony overlooked one of Connection City's inner shafts.
Thick pipes crawled along the walls like veins, and below them gas lamps burned with a steady orange glow. Their flames trembled gently in the rising steam, casting long, wavering shadows across the metal. Far beneath, the city groaned—steel shifting against steel, a sound that never truly faded.
Ironhand leaned against the railing, a cigarette resting between his fingers. Smoke curled upward, dissolving into the night air.
Pearl stood a few steps behind him. Her hands were folded neatly, posture straight, expression composed. There was no softness in her stance—only control. A seriousness that felt deliberate, almost practiced.
"Do you have a theory?" she asked at last.
"About who killed William."
Ironhand exhaled slowly.
"I have questions," he said. "Too many of them."
Pearl tilted her head slightly, allowing him to continue.
"That pressure weapon complicates everything," Ironhand went on. "It shouldn't even exist anymore. And yet it does. Which means people who shouldn't be capable of killing… suddenly are."
"So you think it's the key," Pearl said.
"One of them," Ironhand replied. "Not the answer."
He flicked ash over the railing.
"The victim was shot," he continued, "yet there was no blood. Not on the floor. Not on the walls."
Pearl's gaze sharpened.
"And the escape?"
"That's worse," Ironhand said. "A man gets shot in a sealed office and vanishes without being seen. No alarms. No cameras. No guards reporting a wounded man leaving the building."
Pearl remained silent for a moment.
"And the motive?" she asked.
Ironhand shook his head.
"That's the biggest question of all. Why him? Why now? Personal? Corporate? Or something buried deeper?"
He took another drag from the cigarette.
"Every question points in a different direction. And none of them have answers yet."
"But you will find them," Pearl said.
It wasn't a question.
Ironhand glanced back at her.
"I will."
A faint, controlled satisfaction crossed Pearl's face. It vanished almost instantly, replaced by her usual composed seriousness.
Footsteps echoed behind them.
Ironhand turned as Andrew stepped onto the balcony. The gas lamps cast deep shadows across his face. His gaze passed Pearl without lingering. The distance between them was quiet, unmistakable.
"You wanted to see me," Andrew said. "They said you called."
"I did," Ironhand replied, brushing ash from his cigarette.
"Just one question."
Andrew nodded.
"Why did the girl come with you?"
Andrew blinked once.
"Elizabeth?" he said. "She heard about my father. When she found out something had happened, she insisted on coming. Said I shouldn't be alone."
He paused briefly.
"That's all."
Ironhand studied his face, searching for something unsaid. Then he nodded once.
"Alright," he said.
Pearl remained where she was, expression unreadable.
Ironhand crushed the cigarette against the railing and gestured toward the doors.
"Let's continue inside."
Andrew hesitated for a brief moment before following.
The balcony was left behind, bathed in gaslight and the endless hum of Connection City.
Gas lamps lined the narrow road, their orange light barely cutting through the drifting steam. Pipes hissed above, releasing bursts of vapor that swallowed the shadows and gave the street a restless, uneasy breath. Somewhere far below, machinery groaned, metal grinding against metal.
Elizabeth walked alone.
One hand held a small handheld camera, its screen glowing faintly as she scrolled through captured images. Her eyes moved quickly, focused, distant. She barely noticed where she was going.
Frames of the office flashed past her gaze—angles, reflections, corners that the naked eye often missed. She slowed, rewound, paused.
Her wallet slipped from her coat pocket.
It hit the ground softly.
Elizabeth didn't notice.
She continued walking, absorbed in the footage, unaware that the street had grown emptier, quieter. The air felt heavier now. Unwelcoming.
She glanced around at last, unease settling in her chest.
That was when a voice spoke behind her.
"Miss."
Elizabeth froze.
Before she could turn, a hand caught her arm.
Instinct took over.
She twisted sharply, shoving the figure back and stumbling away, heart racing. Her breath came fast as she raised her hands defensively.
"Don't touch me," she snapped.
The man didn't advance.
Ironhand stood where she had pushed him, calm, unmoved. One hand was raised—not threatening. In the other, he held her wallet.
"You dropped this," he said gently, extending it toward her.
Elizabeth stared at the wallet, then snatched it from his hand without thanks. She turned to leave.
Ironhand stepped forward and caught her arm again—lighter this time.
"I just want to ask a few questions."
Elizabeth yanked her arm free, anger flashing in her eyes.
"I said don't touch me."
Ironhand studied her for a moment, then spoke evenly.
"A lady as nervous as you," he said, "if she's going to walk these streets at night, should consider carrying a weapon."
Elizabeth scoffed.
"What I do to protect myself is none of your business."
Ironhand's gaze dropped briefly to the camera in her hand.
"I'd like to see the photos."
Elizabeth frowned. "What photos?"
"The ones you took upstairs," Ironhand replied. "Of the room."
Her grip tightened around the camera.
"I'm not giving you anything," she said sharply. "You don't have a warrant. You don't have permission."
Ironhand said nothing.
She was right—and they both knew it.
Elizabeth took a step back.
"If you don't have anything else to ask," she said, "I'm going home."
She turned away.
"One last question," Ironhand said.
She paused, but didn't face him.
"Why did you come?" he asked. "Why were you so insistent on taking photos? Are you planning to sell them to a magazine?"
She turned now, eyes cold.
"Because no matter where you sell them," Ironhand continued, "Keytech Industries will make sure they disappear."
Elizabeth met his gaze without flinching.
"I don't have a problem with Keytech," she said. "I took the photos because there might be something I couldn't see at the time. Something that only shows up later."
Her voice was steady. Certain.
She turned and walked away, footsteps fading into the steam.
Ironhand watched her go.
"Women," he muttered to himself. "I'll never understand them."
He turned in the opposite direction and started walking.
The city swallowed him as the narrator's voice settled over the scene—quiet, knowing.
Ironhand already knew where the first real clue was waiting.
And to reach it, he would have to visit an old friend.When Ironhand descended to the Fourth Layer, the air itself felt different.
The orderly hum of the upper levels faded, replaced by uneven, choking sounds. Steam pipes coughed at irregular intervals, metal gears groaned as if they had lost their rhythm. The glow of the gas lamps was weaker here; their flames trembled, unable to fully push back the darkness.
Two men stood by the roadside. Their eyes were half-lidded, implants crudely installed. One leaned against the wall, laughing to himself. The other crouched on the ground, staring into an empty metal bowl, muttering incoherently.
Farther ahead, an old woman knelt and begged. Sparks jumped from the cheap implant in her arm, and every movement clearly caused her pain.
Ironhand passed without looking.
Curiosity was dangerous on this level.
He moved between massive pipes and rail lines. This wasn't a neighborhood—it was Connection City's oldest industrial sector. There were no homes here. Only people forced to live inside machines.
He stopped in front of a building carved into an unused main pipe.
The door was rusted, but the lock was solid.
He stepped inside.
The interior was a narrow vertical shaft. Metal stairs spiraled upward, railings clearly added later. The pipe extended toward the upper layers, but only a small portion had been made livable.
On one of the levels, an old man was talking to himself.
His body was filled with cheap, outdated implants. Most of them didn't fit properly. From his voice, his eyes, his twitching movements, it was clear he was in the early stages of degeneration.
Ironhand was used to sights like this.
"Mr.Abraham," he called out.
The man startled and turned immediately.
"Ah—Mr. Ironhand," he said, a strange grin spreading across his face. "Welcome. He's on the top floor. Should I tell him you're here?"
"No," Ironhand said. "Let it be a surprise."
The man nodded.
Ironhand continued up the stairs.
At the very top stood a heavy door.
He pushed it open.The top floor was less a room and more a standing machine.
Cables coiled across the floor. Terminals emitted unstable light. The air smelled of oil, ozone, and recycled oxygen.
George sat at the center.
He could barely be called human anymore.
Mechanical arms protruded from his back—far more than legal limits allowed. Thin ones sorted papers and data slates, heavier ones adjusted valves and secured thick cables.
Cables ran from his spine into the ceiling, binding him to the room. He looked like an old machine that could never be removed.
An oxygen tube was strapped to his mouth.
Speaker implants embedded across his face and neck spoke at the same time, overlapping voices pouring out.
"At that price you expect me to take you seriously—"
"No, no, without double that offer the shipment doesn't move—"
"If you're late, the cost goes up. Don't cry later—"
The voices piled over each other, all coming from George. Sharp, fast, theatrical. A full-fledged old charlatan—but one who ran the city.
"Ironhand."
George froze.
The mechanical arms stopped midair.
The voices fell silent one by one.
He turned his head.
"Well, I'll be damned," he said, smiling. "A ghost still climbing out of the city's underbelly."
One of his arms began disconnecting lines.
"Gentlemen," he said loudly into the speakers. "Business break. Important client."
The channels shut down.
Another arm moved to prepare tea.
"Sit," George said. "If you're here, things are still interesting."
Ironhand took the seat across from him.
"Busy," Ironhand said.
George laughed. "The city breathes through me. Not being busy is a luxury."
The tea was slid toward Ironhand.
"For old times," George said. "On the house."
There was no tension between them. Only familiarity worn smooth by years.
"Black market," Ironhand said. "Weapons."
George's grin widened. "Ah. A lovely subject."
"Pressure rifles," Ironhand said. "Recently."
George raised an eyebrow. "Almost never happens. But…"
He paused.
"Recently, the Nosferatu Clan bought one."
Ironhand's gaze hardened. "How."
George smirked. "Custom order. A weapons smuggler brought it into the city."
The narrator knew this much: George didn't just sell weapons. He sold intent—purpose, targets, reasons. That information could be resold. He was paid for it. And in Connection City, there was no network better than his.
"The reason?" Ironhand asked.
George shrugged. "They said it was for a job that would change the entire city."
Silence fell.
"Their location," Ironhand said.
"Blood Sugar," George replied. "But be careful. The Nosferatu aren't known for hospitality."
Ironhand rose from his seat, fastening his coat.
"I've wiped out clans before," he said calmly. "One more won't stick to my hands."
George's laugh echoed through the cables and pipes.
"Still the same," he said. "Reckless, confident—and profitable."
One of his mechanical arms lifted slightly, almost like a wave.
"Good hunting, Ironhand."
Ironhand paused at the door.
"Stay alive, George. The city would fall apart without you."
George grinned, his voice crackling through old speakers.
"And you'd be bored without me."
They shared a brief, unspoken understanding—then Ironhand stepped out.
The door closed behind him.
and with that new hunt start for the İronhand