Twenty minutes later, the mayor decided to show me the place himself.
Apparently, walking like a normal person was beneath him.
We rode a modified maintenance cart along the narrow train tracks. The thing was rebuilt for comfort rather than work.
Polished wooden panels covered what was once bare metal.
Plush leather seats lined the interior, soft enough to sink into, facing each other like those luxury trains designed more for the journey than the destination.
A small table had been bolted between us, holding a bottle of wine secured in a silver bracket so it wouldn't rattle loose while we moved.
To be honest, the mayor really knew how to enjoy life. While others starved, he lived like a king.
This kind of influence wasn't possible through authority alone—it came from the fear he imposed.
According to the rumors I heard, almost every powerful scavenger in the district worked for him.
