The city doesn't sleep — it festers.
By dawn, word had already spread: Elder Hwan's men had found the apothecary storehouse emptied of its most valuable medicines. No witnesses, no trace, nothing but an insult carved into the storage door — a jagged lotus mark burned into the wood.
That mark was Reed's way of spitting in a man's face. I didn't stop him from leaving it there, but I knew what it would mean. To Elder Hwan, it wasn't just theft — it was a declaration of war.
Good. War meant chaos, and chaos was the perfect veil.
From the shadows of a tea stall, I watched Hwan's enforcers sweep through the alleys in tight groups, iron cudgels in hand. Their armor wasn't the polished kind you'd see at the clan gates — it was dented and stained, reeking of sweat. Men who had seen real fights, real blood.
They weren't knocking on doors. They were kicking them down.
An old man cried out as they dragged him into the street, demanding answers he didn't have. A child's wail cut through the morning air when her father was beaten for "stalling." By the time they left, two stalls were overturned, three teeth lay scattered on the cobblestones, and the smell of blood lingered in the air.
Every time the cudgels came down, I watched the faces in the crowd — the clenched jaws, the narrowed eyes. Resentment bloomed like mold in the damp corners of the slums. That resentment was a resource.
I could already see how it could be shaped.
Reed, for all his skill with the bow, was blind to currents like this. He understood killing, intimidation, and profit — but not the way public anger could be guided like a river into cutting new channels. That was my advantage.
And today, I intended to widen that channel.
* * * * * * * * *
When the enforcers moved toward the north market, I slipped into the alleys, my hood low, keeping to the smell of drying fish and the smoke of cooking fires. Those were my cover scents.
In the back room of a herbalist's shop, I found Soot — a narrow-faced beggar with enough scars on his back to mark him as an old convict. His eyes darted like a rat's until they settled on me.
"You've been seen too much lately," he said. "Word is, Hwan's paying silver for any lead."
"Good," I said, pulling a coin from my sleeve and letting it spin once before landing in my palm. "You're going to give them one. But not about me."
His brow furrowed.
I leaned in close, lowering my voice so the grinding of pestles in the next room would cover my words. "You're going to tell them the lotus mark wasn't Reed's. You're going to say it belongs to the Crooked Dagger boys — that they've been boasting about the theft all morning in the southern gambling dens."
Soot hesitated. "That's—"
I let the coin slide across the table, followed by another. "That's a week's food for your family," I said. "And if anyone questions you, you swear you saw one of the Crooked Dagger's lieutenants carrying a crate of apothecary jars with the seal still on them."
He licked his lips, eyes fixed on the coins. "And if they find out I lied?"
"They won't," I said flatly. "And if they do, tell them I forced you. They'll be too busy looking for me to punish you."
Soot swallowed hard, then nodded.
* * * * * * * * *
It took less than two hours for the slums to buzz with the rumor. By noon, a Crooked Dagger safehouse was burning, its defenders beaten into the dirt by Hwan's enforcers.
From a rooftop, I watched smoke curl into the gray sky. The balance of power had shifted — subtly, but enough.
I could feel Reed's eyes on me long before I turned. He was leaning against the opposite building, bow unstrung, an unreadable expression on his face.
"You play dangerous games," he said.
"Games keep us alive," I replied.
His lips twitched — not quite a smile. "And when the Crooked Daggers find out who really stole that medicine?"
"They'll be too dead to care," I said, letting my gaze return to the burning safehouse. "Or too busy surviving to seek revenge."
Reed studied me for a long moment, then pushed away from the wall. "I don't know whether to trust you or put an arrow in your back."
"That's good," I said. "Uncertainty keeps people honest."
He chuckled once, then vanished into the alley shadows, moving without a sound.
* * * * * * * * *
That night, I walked the edges of the slums, memorizing the routes the enforcers favored and the blind spots in their patrols. The city was shifting under my feet — and I was making sure I stepped on the right stones.
Elder Hwan thought he was tightening his grip. In reality, he was turning every man in the lower quarter into a potential knife at his throat.
And I was the one sharpening the blades.
* * * * * * * * *
By morning, the smell of burnt timber and charred flesh still lingered in the slums. The Crooked Daggers had lost a safehouse, three lieutenants, and whatever stock they'd been hiding there. The survivors had scattered like rats, and the rumors of their "theft" from Elder Hwan were spreading like oil on water.
I hadn't planted the lotus mark to start a petty gang war. Petty wars burned hot and died quickly. I needed something that smoldered, something that lasted long enough to cover the moves I had yet to make.
And that meant escalating the fire without stepping into it myself.
* * * * * * * * *
At mid-morning, the bounty posters went up.
They were crude sheets nailed to walls and posts — a charcoal sketch of Reed, his bow slung over his shoulder, with the words:
[10 taels of silver for capture alive. 5 for the head.
By order of Elder Hwan.]
Below it was a second name — mine. No sketch, just a description: Tall, lean build. Black hair tied back. Scar on left cheek. Carries himself like a scholar.
The reward for me was double.
I stood in the crowd as the posters went up, my hood pulled low. No one looked at me twice. I had trained myself to be invisible when I chose — slow breaths, no sharp movements, blending with the rhythm of those around me.
An older man beside me spat on the ground. "That's a lot of silver," he muttered to no one in particular. "Half the slums will be hunting before noon."
Perfect.
* * * * * * * * *
Back in Reed's safehouse — a cramped, two-room loft above a tannery — he was pacing, bow in hand, eyes dark with anger.
"You see these?" He slapped one of the bounty posters onto the table. "Ten taels for me. Twenty for you. You know what this means?"
"That they think I'm more dangerous than you?" I said, keeping my tone light.
Reed's jaw tightened. "It means every drunk, cutthroat, and half-starved beggar with a knife will be sniffing around here. You've brought this on us."
I stepped past him to the window, peering at the alley below. "No, Reed. I've brought them to us."
His eyes narrowed. "Explain."
"If they come here," I said, "we know where they are. We control the ground. We turn this safehouse into a killing ground and thin the herd before they can become a problem later."
He stared at me for a long moment. "You're baiting them."
"Yes," I said simply. "And once they're dead, the word will spread — hunting us isn't worth the risk. The bounty will still be there, but fear will weigh heavier."
A slow, grim smile spread across Reed's face. "Alright. Let's make them bleed."
* * * * * * * * *
We spent the next few hours turning the safehouse into a trap.
Reed rigged the stairwell with a tripline attached to a weighted beam — enough to break a man's skull if it hit him right. I coated the edges of the narrow window frame with a paste brewed from nightshade and powdered glass; anyone trying to climb in would find their hands shredded and poisoned in the same motion.
The floorboards in the entry hall were loosened just enough to send the careless stumbling, and beneath the rug, I set a scatter of caltrops dipped in rancid oil. Infection was as much a weapon as steel.
By noon, the place looked untouched — but every inch of it was a death sentence.
* * * * * * * * *
They came faster than I expected.
The first was a lone bounty hunter — a thick-shouldered man with a cleaver and no subtlety. He kicked the door in and took two steps inside before the floor gave way under him. He pitched forward, his shin striking the caltrops, and his scream filled the air as the oil worked into the fresh wounds.
Reed ended it with a single arrow to the throat.
* * * * * * * * *
The second wave was smarter — three men, one at the door, two climbing toward the window.
The first man ducked inside and froze, eyes scanning. He spotted the rug and moved to kick it aside — triggering the tripline. The beam swung down, catching him across the temple with a crack.
Outside, the climbers hissed as they grabbed the poisoned window frame. One fell backward, clutching his bleeding hands; the other got his leg over the sill before I drove a knife into his ribs. His body fell into the alley with a dull thud.
Reed grinned, his bowstring still humming. "Your traps work."
"They're not for killing everyone," I said. "They're for making survivors run and talk."
* * * * * * * * *
By the third wave, the attackers didn't charge in blind. This group sent a boy first — no more than twelve — carrying a clay pot of oil. He smashed it against the doorframe, then a torch followed. Flames roared up instantly.
"Time to leave," I said.
Reed didn't argue. We slipped out the rear window onto the tannery roof, moving across the tiles while smoke billowed behind us.
In the alley below, I heard voices shouting, arguing over whether they'd gotten us. That was good — uncertainty kept them hunting shadows instead of finding our trail.
* * * * * * * * *
We didn't go far. From a shadowed rooftop across the square, we watched the safehouse burn.
Reed's jaw was tight. "We're homeless now."
"No," I said. "We're untraceable now. Every hunter in the slums will think we're on the run. That gives us room to move."
He gave me a sidelong look. "And what's our next move?"
I watched the flames climb higher, the smell of burning poison and blood mixing in the air. "We find the Crooked Dagger's new hideout. And we cut out the heart of their leadership before Elder Hwan can."
Reed smirked. "Always thinking ahead."
"Always," I said, and meant it.