The Red Light District was never quiet.
Even in the stillest hours, it pulsed—heartbeat after heartbeat, lie after lie.
There were men who preached. Some to children, some to their parents, some to God.
Bedtime tales for broken boys. Laughter that tried to wash the blood off. Consequence disguised as comfort.
Their smiles were different—too wide, too soft, or gone altogether—but each wore them like armor. Not to save anyone.
Just to survive the sermons they couldn’t stop repeating.
There were boys in capes, stitched from dreams… or scars. They weren’t saving the world, just trying to find where they fit in.
And maybe if they bled brightly enough, someone would see them.
I hated the curators. Preservationists.
They polished the rot and called it tradition. They didn’t live in the district, but they preserved it. Controlled it.
Not to protect it. But to make sure nothing changed enough to expose them.
And they hated the drifters, the ones on the outskirts who called themselves Seekers.
But they weren’t chasing truth. They were chasing permission.
Permission to leave. To burn bridges. To vanish.
Not to find something… to escape everything.
And one…
He wore music like armor.
He didn’t talk. Just played. Soft and haunting, like he was mourning something long gone.
Maybe it was himself.
Maybe it was me.
I watched them all.
And I lit the match.
They think it was chaos. A monster.
They’re wrong.
It was precise. Necessary.
I needed to see what was beneath. Beneath the noise.
To see if silence lived beneath the noise.
The door I found that night wasn’t the one I was looking for.
But now?
I know exactly where it is.
The door’s name is Ring of Dreams.
And Lambs to the Slaughter? It’s the new Red Light District.
And I’m the new bomb.
Because they’re still here… still loud.
Sunshine, turning eulogies into punchlines. Foley, hoping nostalgia will hold his world up one more night. Graves, dragging his gospel like a coffin.
Captain Arcadia, praying this fight makes him whole. Destructo, swinging at ghosts, hoping one hits back.
Redgrave, draped in velvet and violence. Narcissa, perfectly still—convinced if she doesn’t blink, no one will see her fear.
Preservationists doing everything they can to keep you from realizing you’re already dead.
Attano preaching freedom like he earned it. The Night asking questions he doesn’t want answered.
Seekers seeking something worse than themselves.
And El Mariachi Muerte?
He’ll play one last song. His finale.
They’re not opponents. They’re witnesses to the next detonation.
One by one, they’ll come down that ramp.
One by one, I’ll expose them.
And one by one, they’ll fall.
Because I’m not here to survive the slaughter.
I’m here to cause it.
If the first bomb was a question, this one’s the answer.
They’ll scream. They always do.
Right before the flash swallows everything. Right before memory turns to myth.
That’s the moment I wait for. Not the fire. Not the wreckage.
The clarity. The truth beneath the ashes.
That’s where the door opens.
And this time…
I walk through alone.
Because I earned my silence.