The head of the Cotto clan sat behind a massive table, buried in stacks of parchment. Paperwork his eternal, dusty lot but something felt unusual…
The last few nights had been sleepless. Alarming news hung in the air, skirting around the clan, yet his bald head, polished by years of tension, itched insistently. As if sensing trouble… But from where?
His thoughts were cut by quick, sharp footsteps in the corridor. "Unexpected guests at this hour?" Instinctively, the old man raised his head, and his hand slid under the table. Steel scraped coldly against a bracket.
"Master! Permission to enter?" a booming voice from behind the door, familiar but promising no good.
"Enter," the old man responded. The hand on the knife didn't tremble.
A short man in his thirties entered the study, his face set in road dust. Without a deep bow, he dropped to one knee in the center of the room. The movement was precise, almost surgical.
"Urgent report from the capital," he extended a scroll sealed with wax blood-black.
The old man nodded. Another nod and the messenger vanished behind the door. Only then did the old fox pull out the knife, but not to put it away; he laid it beside him. The scroll was quickly checked with an artifact a disc of dull metal held over the wax. "No trace of magic. Clean."
The sparse lines stabbed into his eyes:
Reporting, Mei, base "Grey Forest" (southern perimeter of the capital).
The capital is locked down tight. All our agents, all structures are inside, without communication. Breaking through to them to ascertain the situation is impossible. Even carrier pigeons are being shot down. We also failed to infiltrate from the outside; all verified routes are cut off. Old connections have seemingly evaporated. Corrupt officials, even the greediest, are flatly refusing money. The city is presumably under a dragnet…
Awaiting your instructions.
The study's silence thickened, became viscous like tar. The Clan Head slowly lowered the scroll. A cold wave rolled from his bald head down his spine. His "gut feeling" never lied. Trouble had come. And now he knew from where.
The old man pressed his palm to his temple. The skin under his fingers was cool, taut. The situation demanded action immediate and precise.
"Hmm. Let me think… Rumors were floating around a couple of days ago: his client, Linsi, was caught in a deception. And that's where it ended. Pity about the kind soul, of course. But the contract is fulfilled, the rest isn't his problem. Saigo was in the capital on that very business… Could this all have started because of that? Need to get to the bottom of this."
"Messenger!"
"Yes, master?" The voice from behind the door was instantaneous, like a trap snapping shut.
"Fetch Ayato. Some… work has been found for her."
"Right away!"
Footsteps faded in the corridor. The Master sank back into the study's silence, already working through his plan.
…
Saigo froze at the edge of the slums, where the stench of rot mixed with hearth smoke. The journey had been long, every nerve a taut string.
Twice, a patrol had nearly caught him he merged with the shadows, holding his breath as boots thundered centimeters away. Almost a day without sleep pressed down with leaden fatigue.
"Time." He crouched by a wooden bucket at a well, gulping murky water. The liquid burned his throat but cleared his thoughts. One quick glance around and he dissolved into the maze of clay-brick walls, a shadow among shadows in the final sprint.
…
Marcus stood before a map that had turned the capital into a chessboard. His move was made. The guard had been pulled from the streets they now formed a ring constricting the walls and adjacent districts like steel teeth in a trap.
"He must pass through here. Or… try the river." But he was awaited there too agents of the secret police, unflinching and cold-blooded, guarded every drain, every sewer outlet. Some, having drained vials of murky potion, lay in wait right in the stinking muck of the collectors.
"Might have to give them a bonus for the extra… markings," Marcus winced inwardly, recalling that nauseating stench.
At every key point a bridge, a breach, a narrow passage a combat squad stood, blocking routes, providing backup in case of a desperate rush from their target.
Now, all that was left was to wait. Hope burned dimly but stubbornly.
"Let my efforts not be in vain."
"Hmm. Maybe I was wrong to brush off Katarina?" flashed through his mind for a brief moment. "No. Her appearance would bring chaos. She'd bark orders, sowing panic, and fear of her would paralyze the soldiers more than our quarry's reputation."
"So be it."
He leaned back in his chair. "A couple of hours till dawn. Which means our runner will make a break for it… right about now." The silence of the command post became ringing, filled with the invisible tension of anticipation.
…
Daya trudged through the sleeping streets. Her torn clothes hung in tatters, the bruise under her eye pulsed a deep blue. The entire evening with the investigator an endless echo of the same words: A stranger… got in… left…
The investigators, with persistence worthy of a better cause, hammered her with questions about hideouts, accomplices, passed information.
She just shook her head, her voice hoarse with fatigue. She told the truth, of course, but not all of it. She'd prudently omitted the gold, hiding it deep in her pocket back at the brothel.
For her, a whole fortune meant medicine for her brother, food, and so much more. The thought of warm bread and meat broth drove the girl forward.
But the image of the stranger wouldn't leave her. The one who made ordinary people's blood run cold. But not hers… Years in the stinking brothel had dulled fear.
The killer seemed like just a boring client next to that. She glanced around and pulled out the coin.
Heavy, convex, it shimmered in the dim lantern light like a tiny sun. "Two months of humiliation, and that's if I'm lucky…"
Lost in thought, she didn't hear the steps behind her. "Hey, wench! Who are you?" a raspy voice cut the silence.
Daya turned. Two garrison soldiers were approaching. Faces flushed, eyes bleary from drink; they reeked of cheap alcohol and sweat.
The broader, thicker one, swaying, leaned on his halberd like a crutch and came right up to her. His breath burned her cheek.
"Well, well, what are we doing here? Or don't you know there's a curfew in the city?" Spittle flew from the corner of his mouth.
Daya recoiled. A lump formed in her throat of its own accord; the girl fussily pulled a crumpled pass from her pocket.
The investigator, having gotten nothing, had waved his hand: "Get lost from the South Side for a couple of days." So she was on her way to her aunt's in the slums.
The fat man snatched the paper.
"Uh… What's it say here?" he squinted, poking a dirty finger at it. "Stringbean! Take a look!"
His partner, stepping with a yard-long stride, took the pass. His voice was deliberately slimy, vile: "Hmm… Not sure. The commander said something… Yeah, I missed it. So…" He tossed the paper into a puddle.
They closed the circle. Daya backed away, her back hitting a cold wall. The fat man grabbed her wrist bones crunched.
"Ow!"
"Whoa! And what's this we have?" His greasy fingers dug the gold coin out of her hand. It glittered in the darkness. "Ha! And you still have something to say, you brazen thief?!"
"No! Give it back! It's mine!" burst out of Daya, desperation overpowering fear.
"Yeah, right!" he snorted. "How would a dirty slut like you get such gold? Stole it, I bet!"
She clawed at his hand, trying to snatch the coin back. He just smirked, easily holding her off with one meaty paw, and she instinctively sank her teeth into his fat hand.
"Ow! Fuck! Bitch!" The reaction was instantaneous. A rough, greasy hand cracked against her temple.
Sparks and darkness were all she saw. Daya collapsed onto the wet cobblestones.
"Well, Stringbean?" the fat man rasped, rubbing his bitten hand. "Seems the whore deserves a lesson…"
Stringbean nodded. He stepped around the fallen girl, effortlessly twisting her thin arms behind her back. A rag, stinking of sweat and rot, was roughly shoved into her mouth.
"Mmm…!" The attempt to scream choked on the rag.
The fat man, grunting, began to undo his trousers. Daya stopped resisting. Her body went limp, detached. She knew this scenario by heart.
Her gaze, blurred by tears and pain, fixed upward, on the black sky. "Mom said… souls… a new home… It was beautiful there. White lights… red… blue… green… Wait. Those aren't stars."
From a low roof over the alley, two eyes watched her. They didn't reflect light; they burned with it. A cold, predatory, and utterly inhuman rage.