Chapter 36: Overpriced

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as Edward glanced at Mr. Takeda. "Sir, do you want me to pull down the roll-up doors now?" he asked, keys jangling in his hand.

Mr. Takeda waved him off with a gentle smile. "Nah, don't worry about it. I'll take care of it later."

"Alright, if you're sure," Edward shrugged, already backing towards the exit. "See ya tomorrow!" The bell above the door chimed as he stepped out into the cool night air.

For a moment, the store was eerily quiet. Then, as if on cue, the bell jingled again. A woman slipped inside, her face hidden beneath a low baseball cap. She looked to be in her early thirties, rocking a cute fitted tee and jeans combo with some pretty sweet running shoes.

With the confidence of someone who knew exactly what they wanted, she beelined for a specific aisle. Her fingers closed around a lollipop shaped like an adorable bunny before she headed to the counter.

Mr. Takeda's humming dominated the quiet store, a catchy tune that seemed oddly out of place in the late-night silence. The woman placed the bunny lollipop on the counter with a soft thunk.

"Just this," she said.

Mr. Takeda's cheerful smile never wavered. "That'll be two bucks."

She slid the money across the counter, then leaned in close. Her whisper was barely audible. "The Murder of Crows is on the move, sir."

The old man's humming stopped abruptly. He let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to age him ten years in an instant. "I had a feeling something was up when Damien showed his face around here."

The woman's fingers drummed nervously on the counter. "What's our next move, sir?"

Mr. Takeda's eyes darted to the empty street outside before meeting hers. "For now, we watch. And we wait."

The woman's eyes lit up behind her cap. "Those two kids? They actually took down the Butcher."

Takeda's face broke into a grin that could outshine the flickering store lights. "Looks like our little troublemakers are more useful than I gave 'em credit for."

She fidgeted with the lollipop wrapper, her voice laced with doubt. "But sir, are you sure getting these kids involved is a good idea? I mean, they're Artists of the Night Gallery. How can we trust them?"

Takeda leaned on the counter, his eyes twinkling with a wisdom that seemed ancient. "Let's just say these kids aren't born bad. Life's dealt them a rough hand, that's all. They're not evil - just... complicated."

The woman shook her head, unconvinced. "I still don't trust them. This whole thing feels like a disaster waiting to happen." The woman's voice dropped to a whisper. "What about... you know... her?"

Takeda's eyes clouded over, his cheerful demeanor slipping for a moment. "Let it be. I've known this day would come."

"But we can't just sit back and-" she started to protest, but Takeda cut her off with a sharp look.

"I know what I'm doing," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Now, it's time for you to go."

For a split second, there was a tension. Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, the woman's entire demeanor changed.

"Hey, what's the big idea?!" she shouted. "Two bucks for this lame lollipop? You're totally ripping people off, mister!"

Takeda's face morphed into a mask of annoyance so convincing, you'd never guess it was an act. "Oh, it's you again, you pain in the neck! Always whining about my prices, but you keep coming back! Nobody's forcing you to buy anything. You have no clue how fair these prices are!"

The woman stormed out, flipping Takeda the bird as she went. As soon as the door slammed shut, the old man's shoulders sagged. The mask of anger melted away, leaving behind a face etched with determination.

Little did the organization know, Takeda wasn't about to roll over and play dead. They'd asked for the impossible when he was retiring. They thought that he'd jump at the chance to cut ties with the Night Gallery. Big mistake.

All these years, he'd been building something in the shadows. An army of misfits and outcasts, each one with a score to settle against the Gallery. They were the forgotten ones, the people whose lives had been torn apart by the organization.

Now, they were a powder keg just waiting for a spark.

Takeda's eyes gleamed in the fluorescent light. Soon, very soon, they'd take back everything the Gallery had stolen. All those precious things, all those broken dreams - it was time for payback.

Takeda wasn't kidding himself, though. His little band of rebels? They were basically the Rebel Alliance going up against the Death Star. The Night Gallery's web stretched far and wide, a sprawling empire of secrets and shadows.

But even underdogs have their day, right?

That's why he'd picked Willowbrook for his so-called "retirement." In this sleepy town, the Gallery's grip wasn't quite as chokehold-tight. It was the perfect place to light the spark of their revolution.

Takeda's mind raced with possibilities as he flipped the 'CLOSED' sign. If they could just take down the Gallery's branch here, they'd have a foothold. A base of operations. Maybe then, others would see it wasn't hopeless. Maybe they'd join the fight.

It wouldn't be quick, and it sure as hell wouldn't be easy. But they'd chip away at the Gallery's foundation, one piece at a time. Slow and steady, until the whole rotten structure came crashing down.

As Takeda locked up, a grin spread across his face. The Gallery thought they had all the cards, but they'd forgotten one thing - never underestimate a group of people with nothing left to lose.

…

The neon lights of Lucky's underground pub cast a sickly glow over the trio huddled in the corner booth. The air was filled with cigarette smoke and unspoken tension.

"You two sure about this?" Lucky's eyes darted between Rocco and Bishop. "Once you are there, there's no backing out."

Rocco leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. "C'mon, Lucky. You said it yourself - this gig's gonna pay way more than hauling boxes around like a couple of chumps. We're in."

Bishop, on the other hand, couldn't shake the knot in his stomach. This whole thing felt off, but what could he do? Rocco had sworn up and down that Slick knew about it. Said he'd loop the Boss in as soon as he got back from his vacation.

Still, something about it all made Bishop's skin crawl. He glanced at Rocco, wondering if his friend really knew what they were getting into. Or if any of them did, for that matter.

"But I already told you," Lucky hissed, leaning in close. "Those who were shipped, they were gone. Poof. Vanished into thin air."

Rocco rolled his eyes, flashing that trademark grin of his. "C'mon, Lucky. Use your head. They probably scored a fat paycheck and decided to ditch this dump. You know anyone with half a brain would bail if they got the chance."

The way Rocco said it, it almost made sense. Bishop had to hand it to him – all those hours of Slick's smooth-talking lessons were paying off. Rocco could probably convince a fish it needed a bicycle.

Lucky's eyes narrowed, darting between the two of them. "Fine," he grumbled. "But don't come crying to me when this whole thing blows up in your faces. I warned you, yeah?"

"Yeah, yeah," Rocco waved him off. "We got it. Now are you gonna put our names in or what?"

"Alright, listen up," Lucky's voice dropped to a whisper. "Tonight. Behind the old Manju factory. Don't be late."

Rocco's eyes lit up. "We'll be there."

As night fell, the streets of Willowbrook took on an eerie quality. Shadows seemed to stretch and twist, reaching out with inky fingers. But Rocco and Bishop moved through them like they belonged, two more secrets in a town full of them.

The weight of the small knives tucked into their socks was oddly comforting. It was like slipping on an old, familiar jacket – a reminder of all the shady jobs they'd pulled in the past. Some habits die hard, I guess.

The abandoned Manju factory loomed ahead, a hulking silhouette against the starry sky. As they approached, Bishop couldn't shake the feeling that they were walking into the mouth of some giant, sleeping beast.

Rocco nudged him, grinning. "Just like old times, huh?"

As they approached the team

"Hold up, Lucky," one of his henchmen growled. "What's the big idea? I've been begging for that gig for weeks, and now you're handing it to these punks?"

Lucky's eyes darted around, looking for an escape route that wasn't there. "C'mon, man. They put their names in ages ago. You gotta wait your turn, that's how it works."

It was total BS, of course. Truth was, Lucky couldn't afford to lose his muscle. Paying them peanuts was the only way he stayed afloat in this dump.

The henchman's eyes narrowed. "You promised me, remember?"

"Hey, hey," Lucky held up his hands, flashing that used-car-salesman smile. "When have I ever steered you wrong, huh?"

As the words left his mouth, Lucky was already planning how to weasel out of this one. Promises were made to be broken in the Third Street, after all.

Suddenly, the purr of a high-end engine ruled the night. A sleek black car, the kind you only see in movies, rolled up like a panther on wheels. Two vans followed, so clean they practically sparkled in the moonlight.

Bishop's heart skipped a beat as a guy in a suit stepped out, his hair slicked back like some corporate shark. The way he moved, the cold gleam in his eye - it was like seeing a ghost of their old boss, Cleaner 8827.

A chauffeur, complete with a cap straight out of the 1950s, trailed behind him like a well-trained puppy.

"These the new recruits, Lucky?" Suit Guy's voice cut through the night like a knife.

Lucky nodded so fast, Bishop thought his head might fall off. "Yes, Boss. Hand-picked 'em myself. They're solid, I swear."

Suit Guy prowled in front of them, eyeing each person like they were livestock at an auction. When he got to Bishop and Rocco, he froze.

"Hold up," he said, his eyes narrowing. "These two weren't in the files you sent over."

Lucky's brain went into overdrive, spinning a story faster than a pro gambler shuffles cards. "Ah, about that, Boss. Last-minute substitutes. The original guys were... unreliable. Figured you'd prefer fresh blood over potential headaches, y'know?"

Suit Guy's eyes narrowed for a moment, then he shrugged. Just like that, the tension popped like a bubble. Bishop nearly collapsed with relief.

"Very well," he announced, taking center stage like he owned the night itself.

With a snap of his fingers, the chauffeur appeared, carrying a stack of cash thick enough to choke a horse. He started handing out bills like he was dealing cards in the world's most expensive poker game.

As the 'goods' – and man, did Bishop hate thinking of himself that way – pocketed their share, Lucky got his cut. His eyes lit up.

"You're the best, Boss!" Lucky gushed, probably already dreaming of whatever scheme he'd blow the money on.

Bishop's hand felt heavy with cash, but his stomach was tied in knots. What exactly had they signed up for? 

Lucky's henchman skulked in the shadows, practically green with envy. If only his boss had kept his promise, he could've been swimming in cash right now. 

Meanwhile, Rocco and Bishop shared a look that spoke volumes. The wad of bills in their hands felt way too heavy for comfort.

"Dude," Rocco whispered, his eyes wide. "Is it just me, or does this feel seriously overpriced for a 'simple gig'?"

Bishop nodded, a knot forming in his stomach. "Yeah, this is definitely overpriced. Something's not adding up here."

It was like being handed a fortune to flip burgers. Sure, you'd take it, but you'd be wondering what kind of diamond-encrusted spatula you were supposed to use.

The overpriced cash felt like it was burning a hole in his hand. What exactly had they gotten themselves into?