Wings of Fire Ch. 15 - Teaser (Patreon)

The streets here felt different, but not dangerous… just intentional. Chicago’s brighter districts were only a few blocks back, where neon bled into polished stone and laughter spilled from cafés and dance halls. Here, the lights were fewer and steadier, with warehouses that stood shoulder to shoulder like old men who’d seen too much. Windows were narrow, doors were heavy, and everything was built for work, not spectacle.

Michelle Greyheart walked with her hands in the pockets of her tailored coat, her stride unhurried, confident in the way of someone who belonged wherever she decided to be. Her red hair was tucked beneath a simple hat, her usual commanding presence muted but not gone… just folded inward. Beside her, Li-Fan moved like a shadow that chose when to be seen, her dark hair pinned neatly, her posture relaxed in a way that suggested readiness rather than ease.

They passed a loading dock where men were smoking in low voices. A freight elevator groaned somewhere overhead. The city breathed around them—quiet, mechanical, patient. The sign they stopped beneath was unremarkable, but they knew the place well. It was one of the few places in this city where one could find the information they needed.

It was called the Copper Lantern.

Inside, the air was warm and thick with smoke. Jazz hummed from a small stage, with an upright bass, muted trumpet, and brushed drums that played not for applause but for atmosphere. The crowd was sparse, as it usually was at this hour on a weekday. Dockworkers, a couple of women in sharp suits nursing drinks, and a man in suspenders quietly losing money at a back table.

This wasn’t a tourist place, but one where people came when they didn’t want to be remembered. A broad-shouldered man stood near the bar, arms crossed, suit jacket straining slightly at the shoulders. His eyes flicked to Michelle and Li-Fan the moment they stepped inside, assessing without staring. Michelle approached him, resting her forearms casually on the bar.

“Evening,” she said. “Heard the lantern burns longer on windy nights.”

The man studied her for half a second longer than politeness required. Then he nodded once.

“Depends who’s tending it.”

“We were told Elias still keeps the wick trimmed,” Li-Fan stated, her voice slipping in smoothly.

That did it.

The man stepped aside, revealing a narrow door behind the bar that hadn’t been there a moment before—or maybe had, if you knew how to look. As Michelle and Li-Fan passed through, he reached beneath the counter, lifted a receiver no one else would’ve noticed, and spoke softly into it.

“They’re here.”

The door closed behind them with a soft, final click. The corridor beyond was dim and utilitarian, with bare bulbs, concrete walls, and the faint echo of music fading behind them. Two men waited at the far end, thicker than the first, faces carved with the kind of scars that came from learning lessons the hard way.

“Names,” one of them said.

“Guests of the house,” Michelle said as she approached without slowing.

“Passing through to see old friends,” Li-Fan added.

The men exchanged a look, then one of them knocked twice on the wall. It wasn’t a door, just bricks, but it opened anyway. They were led through a narrow stairwell that spiraled down into history itself. The air cooled and the smell changed to that of dust, stone, and old water. The walls bore the marks of another era: chipped masonry, rusted brackets where pipes had once run liquor instead of steam.

Prohibition hadn’t erased its footprints here… it had merely taught them how to hide. At the bottom, they were stopped again. This time, they were searched professionally, with no roughness or theatrics.

“Firearms?” a woman asked, hands quick and precise.

“None,” Michelle said.

“Blades?”

Li-Fan met her eyes calmly. “A few.”

The woman hesitated, then nodded. “Keep them sheathed. If things go bad down here, we assume you know how to finish them.”

“That’s usually the idea,” Michelle replied with a faint smile.