CHAPTER 135: Insurrection-4

CHAPTER 135: Insurrection-4

The night in Munich had a damp, slow pulse; the recent rain glistened on the asphalt and neon lights painted the air red and blue. Fénix walked with his hood up, the shadow of the hood outlining his profile against the dark storefronts. He wasn't looking for company or a smile: he was looking for answers.

He arrived at a dull facade, a discreet entrance between seedy bars. The bouncer, a broad guy with tattoos marking his neck like bark, looked him up and down without surprise. There was a list, and that night, if you knew the right password, you got in. Fénix approached and, in a low voice without removing his hood, said:

"Red crow."

The guard raised an eyebrow, as if that word was exactly what he expected. He gestured with his head and pushed the door open. A narrow, dark hallway smelling of old metal led them downwards, towards what seemed like a basement beyond the city.

The club's pulse grew as they advanced: muffled music, stifled shouts, the crash of bodies somewhere in the distance. At the end of the corridor, the door opened and the view unfolded: it wasn't the usual bottle-and-smoke club, but something more raw and dangerous. A large room, humid from the breath of the crowd, and in the center, an improvised pentagon—five sides painted with dried blood and oil—where people bet without question, with adrenaline as their currency.

Fénix moved through the shadows, observing the fights, the bets, the uproar of those losing and winning without scruples. He hadn't come for the spectacle. He walked to the reception area of the place, a raised platform from which emerged a man who seemed carved to command: young, maybe twenty-four, well-groomed beard, and a showy coat made of lion skin that fell over his shoulders like a royal mantle. The room, in contrast to the stench of the fight, displayed extreme luxury: crystal chandeliers, tables with glasses, and expensive bottles on shiny shelves. Nothing in that place respected discretion, except the violence sold at its center.

Fénix waited for the receptionist to nod with a gesture and asked, bluntly:

"I'm looking for Hercules."

The name floated and reached the ears of the man in the coat. For a moment, the guy continued counting bills with slow, meticulous movements; then he looked up, stared at him, and smiled like someone receiving a promise fulfilled.

"Do we know each other?" Hercules asked quietly, not stopping stroking the pile of money in his lap. "Who are you?"

Fénix revealed just enough for the shadow of his face to be visible and replied with the same clarity as the night:

"Fénix Rogers. I'm looking for information."

Hercules tilted his head, examining him. There was something in the way Fénix carried himself that wasn't just anyone trying to get a piece of the action. Instead of answering, Hercules gave a brief order to a boy at his side.

"Bring a chair for Mr. Rogers."

The young man obeyed and brought over an upholstered armchair. Fénix sat with the calm of someone who needs to prove nothing, and in that tense silence, he pulled out a thick wad of cash, smelling of fresh ink, and without losing his composure, tossed it onto the table in front of Hercules. The wad cut through the air with a dry slap and unfolded in the host's hands.

Hercules stopped counting for a second. His fingers stroked the bills, and upon touching them, his expression changed: economic calculation replaced indifference; greed became evident. He counted, felt them, and repeated the gesture with the calm of someone who knows wealth buys silence and answers.

"Alright," he murmured. "Tell me what you want to know."

Fénix didn't smile. He spoke to him with the precision of a surgeon.

"Antigen, their money in the club. Did they keep investing after Berlin? Who were they working with in Munich?"

Hercules toyed with a glass of whiskey, looked around, and then leaned forward, as if willing to make a concession.

"Antigen stopped investing a month ago, after what happened in Berlin," he said. "They vanished. No notice. No letter. They didn't pay the last installment. Left us hanging. But before that, yes: they were first-rate clients. Paid well, demanded discretion. What else do you want?"

Fénix pressed with a tone that admitted no lukewarmness.

"Who was the contact? Any names, shell companies, someone who came to collect or speak with you directly?"

Hercules shook his head. His voice was sincere but limited.

"I don't know proper names. Everything came through intermediaries. Checks, encrypted transfers, and a guy who came by sometimes with a closed briefcase. We didn't ask many questions. One thing though: there's a warehouse outside the city—a place that used to belong to Antigen. Last week it changed hands to the government. Now they say it's state property. Why? No idea. Something about expropriation, controls, the usual when they suspect illegal activity. You might find something there, if they haven't emptied it completely."

Fénix sharpened his gaze. That possibility sparked a light. "Where exactly is it?" he asked.

Hercules took his time answering. The silence was a gesture of protection; in that club, information was valuable, and its delivery had to be paid for with caution.

"An industrial park southeast of the city," he said finally. "Off highway 95, taking the exit for the Langwied industrial park. It's not a glamorous place. It's fenced off and there's been official presence for days. But there are always gaps when things are done in a hurry. If you go, be careful. It's not a stroll."

Fénix absorbed the address with the coldness of someone marking a point on a burning map. He stored his patience like a card up his sleeve and added, quietly:

"Why did Antigen leave so suddenly?"

Hercules shrugged, his gaze evasive.

"Maybe they smelled things were going to get ugly. Maybe it was cheaper to disappear than to pay the bill. I don't know. I don't like disappearances: they usually mean trouble. But I'll repeat: they stopped investing a month ago. And if you want more clues, it's best you don't ask where you shouldn't. There are eyes everywhere."