The commercial street on the edge of Chernoberg was also one of the central areas of the black market,
Like an ugly scar barely healed on the festering wound of the radiation zone,
Built next to an endless stretch of massive concrete isolation walls.
In the distance, the radiation zone’s signature dead forests and twisted buildings loomed like ominous tombstones,
Rising against the misty skyline.
Up close, there was another form of noise and decay.
Eileen was wrapped in a relatively loose old trench coat,
Trying to conceal the brand-new combat suit underneath and the bulge at her waist,
But the taut nerves and vigilant posture still made her seem somewhat out of place,
Moving cautiously and slowly through the noisy crowd.
This damn place…
Eileen had briefly searched online, especially on the dark web,
It could be called a gathering place for the daring.
Currently, the United Nations strictly restricted supernatural entities,
So the few places where their use was legal were the radiation zones and the black market.
Desperate terminally ill patients, thrill-seeking rich kids,
Or scientists wanting to break barriers and make a name for themselves,
Even religious followers would come here,
To witness the world’s only miracle—the supernatural.
But the main body here was still that chaotic order.
The air was thick and foul,
Filled with cheap alcohol, low-quality tobacco, greasy fried food,
The stench of sweat, faint urine, and…
A deeper, indescribable sense of corruption.
Rough music blasted from several neon-lit bars,
Postmodern rock like eternal screams from the torment pillars in hell…
Mixed with drunken laughter, women’s screams, hoarse vendor calls, and crude bargaining,
Forming a sea of noise that made Eileen’s temples throb.
Temporary shacks and dilapidated shops crowded both sides of the street.
Stalls displayed all kinds of suspicious goods:
Military rations, heavily worn uniforms, various ammunition,
Rough homemade liquor, and even a few battered electronic devices marked “Radiation Zone Recycled.”
This was one of the birthplaces of the radiation zone economy,
A city within the city.
Hundreds of merchants and technicians openly and secretly competed,
Fighting over smuggled artifacts,
And a large black-and-gray market arose.
Several hollow-eyed, scantily-clad men and women leaned against dark doorframes,
Boldly observing passersby for potential clients.
Armed personnel in various national uniforms, or with clear mercenary markings, moved in groups,
Their eyes sharp, scanning the surroundings.
Some were drunk,
Making the UN’s abnormal handling association insignia on their uniforms a joke.
They carried the smell of gunpowder and blood,
The most conspicuous and dangerous element of the street.
As everyone knew, the UN abnormal handling association couldn’t handle real anomalies,
But it was still best not to engage with these people…
They were, nominally, supposed to apprehend people like Eileen who casually used supernatural entities.
Occasionally, scavengers in tattered protective suits, carrying heavy packs, hurried past,
Their presence silently reminding people that the forbidden zone that devours life was only meters away.
Eileen’s violet eyes were hidden under the hood’s shadow,
Calmly assessing everyone who brushed past her.
She tried to appear less like an easy target,
Her steps unhesitant, her gaze steady,
With the detached vigilance of the lower class toward the surrounding chaos.
She knew that any hesitation or curiosity could draw unnecessary attention and trouble,
Everyone here was fighting to survive.
A lone, alert but non-local face was often the most tempting prey,
But even the darkest order is still order;
No one would openly grab her, the black market bosses still had pride.
Luckily, the boss wasn’t running a shop here…
He operated from a hidden former Soviet bunker in the radiation zone,
So Eileen didn’t have to risk herself here for the trade.
Even compared to the Soviet black market, this place was far more civilized.
The tension in the air felt tangible,
Every brush past felt like a silent probe.
Eileen could sense several eyes evaluating and calculating her,
Then moving away as she casually swept her cold gaze past them.
The Giant Wave rifle on her back was heavy,
Her only support and final trump card.
Following her memory, she turned into a relatively narrow side street with fewer people,
Leading to what used to be a small shopping center, now a large market.
It was crowded but meant no one would act recklessly…
Unless they didn’t care about surviving.
That was the rule: without rules, nothing works.
Even military personnel had to consider whether it was worth causing chaos here.
Eileen had arranged with Layton,
He would personally bring the gold to her in the market’s outer area.
Walking into the market, Eileen felt strong discomfort…
Supernatural entities were amassed here.
The former multifunctional supermarket no longer sold everyday goods,
But a large number of bizarre supernatural entities.
Those with autonomous properties were stored in lead containers,
Continuously emitting radiation and energy,
Stretching and writhing like living creatures, hovering in the air.
Even without integrating them into the body, their traits were useful for combat and searching.
Of course, not all supernatural entities had extreme powers.
Many only had minor anti-gravity effects, repelling bullets,
Or endlessly radiating heat—powerful for scientific research, but limited for individuals.
This had once been a bustling multifunctional mall,
Now it had transformed into a bizarre trading hub.
The vast space was divided into countless stalls and cubicles.
Ceiling pipes, once decorative, were exposed, wrapped in blackened insulating tape,
With flickering energy-saving lights and swaying emergency lamps,
Casting the space in an unstable, uneasy yellow glow.
The air was filled with ozone, the metallic burn of scorching metal,
And a chilling, indescribable sweetness from the abyss,
A mixture of radiation and energy fields emitted by the active supernatural entities.
The most visually striking were the goods themselves,
Artifacts of bizarre shapes.
Some appeared as living metal wrapped in a ghostly blue force field,
Pulsing like a heart inside a lead coffin, surface flowing with liquid light.
Some were twisted geometric crystals, floating centrally in containers,
Continuously refracting dizzying unnatural spectra.
Others resembled slow-moving shadows or swirling condensed energy,
Casting constantly shifting, malicious abstract patterns on lead walls.
Some more stable forms were displayed under reinforced glass:
A stone constantly seeping cold frost, freezing surrounding air into ice crystals,
A seemingly ordinary dagger rotating slowly in zero gravity,
Even a fern-like plant glowing faintly in the dark…
Who knew what it was for.
The lead containers were not fully sealed,
Hissing and low hums were everywhere.
Occasionally, a container would shake violently, alerting nearby sellers and buyers,
Even triggering the distinctive high-pitched shriek of an energy suppressor.
Radiation levels were noticeably higher than outside,
Eileen’s Geiger counter at her waist emitted a faint, continuous beep,
Reminding her she was still in danger.
Security here was far superior to the streets outside.
They were not ordinary thugs,
But armed personnel equipped with professional gear,
Many wearing gas masks and orange isolation suits, patrolling continuously,
Holding firearms from various nations,
Watching buyers vigilantly to prevent sudden theft of these priceless artifacts.
Buyers were varied but all exuded either wealth, nobility, or desperation.
There were rich people in expensive custom suits, followed by professional advisors,
Cultists with obsessed eyes and mysterious tattoos,
Pale-faced terminally ill patients in thick blankets, pushed in wheelchairs by medical staff,
And shadowy middlemen and mercenaries moving discreetly, whispering.
Trades were conducted silently and efficiently here.
Bundles of cash, vials of unknown liquids, and small artifacts exchanged as currency.
Eileen suppressed her shock,
Steadying her heartbeat,
And, as arranged, quickly walked through the bizarre exhibit area,
Heading toward a relatively secluded corner near a fire exit.
There were a few old sofas and a scratched low table,
Next to a worn sign reading “Rest Area,”
With bottles of vodka and opened cans, clearly left by security taking a break.
Then, she saw him.
Principal Layton.
He was curled in the far corner of a sofa,
Wearing an expensive custom suit, now wrinkled and out of place.
He clutched a heavy black metal briefcase,
A thick alloy chain securing it to his right wrist.
His face was gray and sunken,
Forehead covered in fine sweat beads, eyes wide in terror as he scanned the crowd,
Especially the armed guards.
Every time someone approached, his body tensed instinctively,
Fingers nervously picking at the briefcase edge,
Left leg hesitated to bear weight, obviously an unhealed gunshot wound.
When his gaze finally caught Eileen’s cold violet eyes under the hood,
He shuddered violently, as if struck by electricity.
He tried to stand,
But fell back due to fear and injury,
Forcing a grimace more awkward than crying, lips trembling,
As if trying to speak but fear choked him.
Damn…
Eileen’s heart tightened.
What was that expression?
Absolutely… absolutely wrong…