[@Bartimaeus][@SilverPaw]

The drive to the bar was uneventful. No matter how much he could pimp his ride--a vehicle truly worthy of a dog bounty hunter--it could not beat the most fundamental force of the city: traffic. Unless he lifted his truck enough to crush every car in his way, he was still only as fast as the eldest of drivers. In fact, the drive was probably a few minutes slower, judging by how many people in the city wanted to tailgate and cut off his crime on wheels in spite of the very one-sided damage that would occur from any collision.

Thankfully, the cops were restrained enough to not do anything in a moment of road rage.
[h3]11:10 AM, Ricky's.[/h3]
The bar certainly wasn't a looker. Then again, neither was the entire neighbourhood. The destitute were openly resting in the streets. Most other parts of the city kept such people out of view. But this was a hovel of those without means. A set of streets of no value. It was a place of zero interest to any party, be they bureau, gangster, or businessman.

It was pretty obvious from the outside that it was a mixed business and residential--even if it wasn't zoned for habitation. Where as the city typically used bright neon and light panels for signage, Ricky's instead had the name painted above the door--not well, of course. It seemed to have been painted with whatever paint could be acquired. Dozens of layers on top of each other with whatever brush could be found.

Judging by the sign hanging on the door, the bar was closed. Considering the dust that had been gathering on the sign, it hadn't been flipped in some time. But when did a sign have any authority? The lights were on and the doors were unlocked. Kelly and Al could let themselves in.

The inside was clean, at least.

There was no bartender behind the bar. The only two people in the building were a human and a demon beside each other. The human sat on a bar stool with a glass of spirits in front of him--in spite of his condition. He was missing a leg, half an arm, an eye, and a few fingers. Scars covered his face. Though, he wasn't saying much beyond the stare at the two detectives who had let themselves in. Kelly knew that this was Sato Kurodoji--the last heir to his family.

Beside him was [url=https://i.ibb.co/d0sRvvP0/sheep.png]a small sheep-like demon[/url] that looked at the detectives with a significantly less accusatory look. Her style seemed different for the city, especially from this haunt. It was considerably more reserved and expensive. While the man had been covered in some level of oil and filth, the sheep-like demon was an almost unnatural level of a cleanly white. Though rather than porcelain or feathers, the two detectives felt the white was more akin to bone. Beyond anything else, she seemed polite--a far cry from the battered man who seemed ready to whip a glass if they stepped to close.

[b]"Fuck d'you want?"[/b] Sato said.

The sheep demon remained still at his side, unperturbed by his language.

[hr][h3]11:02 AM, The Paradise.[/h3]
[@Mcmolly][@BurningCold]

The Paradise was a nightclub just outside of the Floating District. Just like its location, the place was just one step away from all of the connotations of a red-light district. It was not a place where the good-hearted nightlife went. Like all gang-controlled nightclubs, the place was half fortress and half place of business. Thankfully, the fact that they came near noon meant that was only two things inside: janitors and gangsters. They wouldn't have to deal with any drunken ravers. Unfortunately, that meant they were going to be beset by a locked door that seemed nigh indestructible.

Or that's what they would have seen if they had arrived thirty minutes earlier.

Immediately outside the entrance, the concrete sidewalk had been shattered as if a heavy weight had been dropped from the sky. The impenetrable front door and its associated door frame was missing, a door-sized hole in its place. 

Inside the nightclub was as expected. There were probably two dozen gangsters inside, all some varying degree of injured. Despite this, they were cleaning up the mess inside. Plastic plants were smashed, fake dirt spilling across the floor. Light fixtures were detached and embedded into walls. Railings had noticeable gaps as if something had been thrown through them. Bar stools that had been bolted down were torn out of the floor. The door sat in the middle of the lobby, a miracle there was no squashed gangster underneath.

[b]"Feckoff,"[/b] a battered man wearing a purple suit said as the two entered. His eye was black and swollen from whatever took place. An underling wrapped up his hand, his shaking arm making it difficult.

[b]"First that bitch shows up, now you two?"[/b]

While it looked like they wanted a fight, it was apparent that they were apprehensive to do so.