Trams in Sector Six keep their own time: late, then all at once. The gray-coated courier rode the third car, satchel chained to his belt like a bad habit. He stared out at rain-wet glass and pretended not to notice the two Fang lookouts hiding in the reflection.
Mara — Swift Step: Ghost Step, Lunge — slipped into the first car with a vendor's basket and a face that belonged to no one. Jonas — Iron Body: Stone Guard, Breaker — waited at the rear platform, big enough to cancel arguments. I stepped on last with a copy of the courier's route, ink still smelling like truth.
We'd planned to borrow his satchel, sort the notes, and give it back heavier with the story we wanted Veyra to hear. Clean. Quiet. Then Fang decided to help.
At the stop by the copper yard, one lookout rose, tugging a cord. The driver glanced back, saw nothing, and slowed anyway. The second lookout moved for the coupling between cars, hand under coat.
"Shift," I breathed.
Mara ghosted through the crush—Ghost Step—two silent strides while floorboards forgot footsteps. She came up behind the second lookout. Lunge flashed; her blade tapped his wrist; steel clinked to the floor and sailed under a seat. He jerked, turned, saw no one worth naming, and reconsidered ambition.
The first lookout reached the courier and lifted the satchel chain with a little tool that had a lot of practice. He didn't get to use it. Jonas stepped through the rear door as the tram rocked—Stone Guard—and his presence rearranged the aisle. People found reasons to be elsewhere. The lookout's hand slowed like it had entered deeper water.
"Ticket," Jonas said.
The lookout blinked at the fist that was not a validator. He tried to slide past. Jonas shifted one foot. Space stopped cooperating. A short elbow—Breaker—landed on the forearm. Bone thumped. The tool fell and skittered.
"Drop," the courier hissed at himself, finally obeying instinct and folding over the satchel. He didn't see me kneel in the aisle, didn't feel the chain unclip from the wrong side—our clip, our key, our story. The satchel left his belt, crossed a heartbeat, and found my hands. I left a twin in its place—same weight, same scuffs, the difference hidden in three letters that mattered.
The tram rang for the stop. Doors gasped. The first lookout dove, the second shoved. This was the part plans dislike: improvisation.
Mara slid low—Low Fall—took the shove into the floor, rolled between boots, and came up inside the second man's knees. A tap to the tendon; he sat down like the world had decided it was time. Jonas angled the other into the doorframe, a gentle correction with a hard edge.
I stepped off with the courier at the copper yard, both of us holding identical satchels for different reasons. He didn't notice; fear fills hands with anything shaped like survival. We were three paces from clean when a third Fang, late and eager, cut us off with a smile that had too many promises.
"Inspection," he said, eyeing the courier's chain, then mine. He held up a badge that belonged to a man who had not lent it. "Random."
"Of course," I said. "I love random. It keeps fate humble."
He reached for the courier's bag. My body decided it was brave. My mouth went along.
"Careful," I said lightly. "That one bites."
He grinned wider, showing a gold cap. "Does it?"
"Yes," I said. "But it prefers wrists."
He glanced down—half a breath, but enough. Mara appeared at his shoulder like she'd grown there. Quickstep slid her a half-step off his line; her hand found his elbow and suggested a different direction. Jonas arrived on his other side and became a fact. The badge reconsidered its career.
"Another day," the Fang said, and tried to step through us. He couldn't. We were a door that hadn't learned to open.
Mara eased him around with a smile polite enough to be insulting. "Market's that way," she said. "Good pears."
He took the hint and the alley, pride intact, plans delayed. We didn't chase. We had mail to sort.
Under the eave of a tin awning, I swapped satchels back, clean as a card trick. The courier's hands trembled; the chain felt suddenly heavy to him, which meant he might live longer.
"You don't know me," I said.
He nodded too fast. "I don't know anyone."
"Excellent," I said. "Forget better."
He went one way, trying to look like walking. We went the other, aiming for a bench with three loose boards and a habit of not being watched. The bench had held worse stories than ours.
I cracked the borrowed satchel we'd kept long enough to matter. Letters slid out—fees, notices, a rumor sheet printed on cheap pink paper. Three notes were ours now: a time, a face, a claim about Umbra at the east yard that would lead Veyra to waste men and look busy. I tucked them into the courier's path where they would feel like coincidence and read like maps.
Mara watched the road. Jonas watched me. "Done," I said.
We walked the satchel back into the courier's shadow two turns later, dropped it into his life without touching him, and kept going before gratitude could make noise.
At the shop, the bell coughed. The inspection seal hummed about duty. Dust resumed hobbies.
"Clean," Mara said, hanging her basket.
"Mostly," I said. "They'll try again. Pride doesn't tire."
Jonas set a coin on the counter, flat and scratched. "For the boy's bread," he said.
"For the vendor too," I added. "He held our box yesterday and never saw it."
We stood in the slow quiet that follows small victories—the kind that don't ask for parades. Outside, trams sighed and pretended to be clocks. Inside, we breathed and pretended to be furniture.
"Tonight?" Mara asked.
"Not fire," I said. "Veyra's about to stage one. We'll need water and the right wind."
"Ghost Step likes wind," she said.
"Breaker doesn't," Jonas replied, flexing aching knuckles.
"Then we stand where hers feeds ours," I said.
Plans don't hum. They harden.