Chapter 181: Gates of Hell

Washington sat at the center of everything that mattered and everything that never made the news.

Soren stepped out of the station with the morning crush. Virginia and D.C. shared a border and a daily river of commuters who would rather sit on a train than choke on traffic or bleed rent money into the city itself.

Outside, the capital looked nothing like Los Santos. No glass needles. No neon skyline. Most of the buildings stayed low and plain, like they were trying not to be noticed.

The construction was worse.

Jackhammers. Dust that water trucks couldn’t kill. Barricades choking every other intersection. It felt less like the seat of a country and more like one enormous renovation that had gotten out of hand.

Soren brushed grit off his coat.

If Ada was right about the Armitage brain-swap work, how many of the people calling shots in this city still had the heads they were born with? Generals. Senators. The ones who decided what the rest of the planet got to live with.

The water here ran deeper than he wanted to swim. Even if Washington sank, the other cities would probably throw a party and start ignoring the mail.

He hadn’t come for the whole government.

He pulled the black card from his pocket. Bayonetta had given it to him after they walked out of the hospital.

Rodin. Fallen angel. Weaponsmith. The Gates of Hell was his house, and this city was his backyard.

Soren wanted two things: a straight answer on Devil Arms, and whatever a man who lived on the line between Earth and Hell might know about the Armitages.

He put the card away and started to raise a hand for a cab.

Glass exploded to his right.

A figure in a long black coat—hair down, face hidden—came out a third-story window and landed on a parked car like the drop was nothing. The roof caved. The figure bounced off it and ran.

A younger man with a gun followed a second later. He hit the same roof, rolled off the side, and spent a few seconds on the pavement before he got up limping and went after the first one, pistol up.

Soren watched them disappear.

The one in the coat carried demon and human in the same body. Cleaner than Miles. Smarter.

Not his circus.

He caught a taxi.

Thirty minutes of blocked streets later the driver dumped him in a slum, took the cash, and left without a word.

Garbage bags rotting on the curb. Graffiti on every wall. A few men in blankets watching him from the doorways.

Soren frowned.

“These people always pick the worst neighborhood.”

The card led him through alleys until the street dead-ended. A flickering neon sign hung over a door that otherwise looked like it belonged to a condemned building.

GATES OF HELL

He pushed it open.

Inside was a different world. Skulls and old steel on the walls. Low light. A packed floor moving to music that actually had a pulse.

Soren cut through the crowd and stopped at the bar.

The man behind it was built like a vault. Bald. Black. Leather coat with the collar turned high enough to hide half his face. Sunglasses, even in the dark.

He was polishing a glass with a white cloth.

“What’ll it be, Sparda brat?”

Rodin didn’t look up.

“Tequila? Strawberry sundae? Fair warning—no pizza.”

Soren slid the black card across the wood.

Rodin’s hand paused.

“The little witch sent you.”

He set the glass down and leaned a thick forearm on the bar.

“Talk. Intel or hardware? Cash on the table or a soul worth something. Gates of Hell stays open either way.”

The music and the laughter cut out like someone had dropped a pane of glass around the counter.

People still danced. Still drank. Still laughed. Soren just couldn’t hear any of it.

A private room carved out of thin air. No ripple. No warning.

Domain work. Cleaner than dragging someone into Silent Hill.

“Two things,” Soren said. “I need an address for the Armitage family. And I want your take on Devil Arms.”

Nico could handle the actual forging. Good materials made her forget about invoices.

Rodin tipped the sunglasses down and looked at him over the rims.

“Kid wants the whole menu.”

He poured a whiskey, killed it, and set the glass down.

“Follow me. This isn’t the place for real business.”