Victor lay sprawled against the dank alley wall, the rough stone digging into his shoulders as dawn seeped gray through the cracks between buildings. The cloak and trousers were thin, but they held out the worst of the chill. Small mercies.
His breath fogged in the predawn air, ragged from the half-sleep that never quite settled in. The cobblestones under him weren't much worse than the cots he'd slept on back in Petersburg, just harder, colder, without the sour reek of vodka and stale smoke.
His fingers absently traced the crown mark over his chest, the skin there oddly warm despite the biting cold.
Never thought Hell would be this fucking subtle.
Not that this was Hell. Probably. If the demons ran this place, they had a sense of irony, giving him a second life, clothes on loan, and a power that fed on the same shit that got him killed the first time.
Still. Better than a bullet to the gut.
Footsteps echoed from the mouth of the alley. Light, quick.
Anya.
She stopped a few feet away, arms crossed, hip cocked. "You actually showed up."
Victor tilted his head back against the wall, not bothering to move. "Figured you'd be the one to flake."
Her lip curled. "Flake?"
He waved a hand. "Run. Chicken out."
Her knife was in her hand before he finished the sentence, the steel catching the weak morning light. "Say that again."
Victor grinned.
Maybe this place wasn't so bad after all.
Victor pushed off the wall, rolling his shoulders as he fell into step beside Anya. The alley narrowed ahead, forcing them single-file between crumbling brick and rusted iron gutters.
"You ever handled a cargo drop before?" Anya flicked a glance over her shoulder, her knife still loose in her grip.
"Depends." Victor smirked. "You ever handled someone who asks too many questions?"
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't bite back. Smart girl.
A flicker at the edge of his vision, black ink unspooling into shapes. Words. Numbers.
Vice Points:
Wrath: 12Pride: 8Greed: 5Lust: 3Envy: 1Sloth: 0Gluttony: 0
Victor exhaled through his nose. So it wasn't just a fever dream. The numbers pulsed, solid as the knife at his belt.
Anya turned left at a split in the alley, boots scuffing damp stone. "Marta said the drop's clean. Just muscle guarding it—two, maybe three. Thick as bricks."
Victor flexed his fingers. "And what's Marta's cut?"
"Half."
He snorted. "Generous."
Anya's shoulders tensed, but she didn't rise to it.
Another flicker in his vision:
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
Proximity Alert: Potential Wrath/Pride trigger detected.
Victor's mouth twitched. He could almost hear the demonic accountant whispering in his ear, profit to be made here.
Anya stopped short, pressing a finger to her lips. Ahead, the alley opened into a cramped courtyard. Two figures leaned against a stacked crate, their silhouettes bulky with armor.
Victor tilted his head. "You take left. I'll make the right one regret his life choices."
Anya's grin was all teeth. "Try not to die before we get pay."
The system window shimmered, approving.
[WRATH +5]
[PRIDE +3]
This was going to be fun.
Victor stepped into the courtyard, the crunch of gravel under his boots deliberate. The guard on the right barely had time to turn before Victor was on him, no wasted motion, no hesitation. A fist to the throat choked off the shout before it could start. The guard staggered, clawing at his windpipe. Victor pivoted, driving his knee into the man's ribs. Bone cracked.
The guard wheezed, swinging blindly. Victor caught the wrist, twisted it hard. The snap echoed wetly in the cramped space. The man screamed, cut short as Victor slammed his forehead into the bridge of the guard's nose. Blood sprayed.
Victor grabbed the guard's hair, yanked his head back, and drew his knife across the exposed throat in one smooth pull. Hot blood sheeted down the man's chest, his legs buckling as life spilled out between his fingers. Victor let him drop, wiping the blade on the dead man's tunic before sheathing it.
His hands were sticky.
Anya emerged from the shadows, dragging the second guard by the collar. The man groaned, one eye swollen shut, his nose a ruined mess. She dumped him at Victor's feet like a sack of grain.
"You kill yours?" She nudged the corpse with her boot.
Victor flexed his fingers, watching the blood drip. "Problem?"
Anya shrugged. "Marta said knock 'em out, not decorate the pavement."
Victor crouched, wiping his palms on the unconscious guard's shirt. "Marta isn't here."
Anya's gaze flicked between the corpse and him. Her jaw worked, but she didn't argue.
Victor straightened. "You want them waking up screaming for reinforcements?"
"They won't." She jerked her chin at the unconscious guard. "He's not remembering shit for a week."
Victor snorted. "Optimist."
[WRATH +10]
[PRIDE +5]
Anya folded her arms. "Next time, maybe don't turn the job into a bloodbath."
Victor smirked. "Next time, maybe keep up."
She bared her teeth, but there was no real heat in it. More… assessment. Like she was recalibrating how much space to give him.
Victor nudged the dead guard with his boot. "Your way leaves loose ends."
Her eyes narrowed. "Your way leaves bodies."
"Same difference."
Anya exhaled sharply through her nose. "Marta's gonna ask why one's breathing and the other's not."
Victor shrugged. "Tell her I don't do half-measures."
A beat. Then Anya smirked, sharp as her knives. "You're explaining the mess."
Victor grinned back.
[PRIDE +3]
He could get used to this.
Victor hauled the crate onto his shoulder, the weight barely straining him. The wood was rough under his palms, the scent of salt and damp rot thick in the narrow alley. Anya moved ahead, light-footed, her boots barely making a sound against the slick cobblestones.
"Where's this going?" Victor adjusted his grip, scanning the dim streets ahead. The city sprawled around them, crumbling facades, rusted iron balconies, the distant murmur of dockside chaos.
Anya jerked her chin toward the waterfront. "Black Gull. Third slip down."
Victor smirked. "Smuggler's boat?"
She shot him a look over her shoulder. "You ask a lot of questions. Maybe too many."
He chuckled. "Call it professional curiosity."
The docks stank of fish guts and tar. Sailors shouted, ropes creaked, and the Black Gull loomed ahead, a low-slung vessel with patched sails and a hull that had seen better decades.
Anya didn't slow. She vaulted onto the gangplank like she owned it, nodding at a scarred deckhand who barely glanced up from his pipe. Victor followed, the crate balanced easily. Below deck, the air was thick with mildew and stale ale.
"Here." Anya shoved open a warped door to a cramped storage hold. Barrels lined the walls, lashed down with fraying rope. Victor dropped the crate beside them with a thud.
Anya crouched, checking the latches. "We stay till sundown. Make sure it ships."
Victor leaned against the wall, folding his arms. "You don't trust your buyer?"
Her fingers stilled. "I trust them to be greedy."
A slow grin spread across Victor's face. He liked her pragmatism. Liked it even more when it lined his pockets.
The ship groaned around them, timbers settling. Somewhere above, boots thudded across the deck.
Anya settled against a barrel, one hand resting on her knife. "Don't get comfortable."
Victor's smirk didn't waver. "Never do."
The hours crawled like rats through tar. Victor tapped his fingers against the crate, counting the groans of the ship's hull, the distant shouts of dockworkers. Sunlight, thin and grudging, leaked through the cracks in the deck above.
Anya hadn't moved from her perch on the barrel, her knife flipping between her fingers in a restless rhythm.
Victor stretched his legs out, cocked his head. "You always this quiet on jobs, or am I special?"
She didn't look up. "You're not special."
He grinned. "Liar."
The knife stilled. Her glare could have flayed skin. "Shut up."
Victor leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head. "Make me."
Her jaw tightened. "Try me."
He stretched, feigning boredom, and let his gaze drag over her. "You waiting for a love letter? A bribe? Or just hoping I'll do something interesting so you can stab me?"
The knife twitched in her grip. "Keep talking, you'll get the last one."
Victor smirked. "Gotta be honest, wouldn't take much to make you the interesting part of my day."
She exhaled sharply through her nose. "You're worse than the fleas in the Warrens."
He chuckled. "Aw, that's sweet. Didn't know you thought about me that much."
Another flip of the knife. "I don't."
"Could've fooled me." Victor rolled his shoulders, watching the pulse in her throat jump. "Bet you're the type who pretends she's not watching, just to get all worked up."
Anya's knuckles whitened around the blade. "Fuck. Off."
Victor tsked, shaking his head. "And here I was thinking we were bonding."
The knife hit the wood between his thighs with a thunk, pinning his trousers to the crate.
Victor looked down at it, then back up at her, raising an eyebrow. "That your way of asking for attention?"
Anya launched off the barrel.
She was fast, blade-fast, but Victor had brawled in alleyways where hesitation got you a slit throat. He twisted, catching her wrist before she could retrieve the knife, and used her momentum to yank her forward.
She stumbled into him, but didn't slow, her knee came up, aiming for his guts. He blocked it with his thigh, shoving her back, but she twisted like an eel, her free hand a flash of knuckles aimed at his throat.
Victor caught that wrist too.
And then she was straddling him, knees digging into the crate on either side of his hips, her weight pressing down, she'd meant to throw a punch, but the angle was all wrong now.
For a second, neither moved.
Victor could feel the hitch in her breath. The way her body locked up when she realized, her waist flush against his, the heat of her pressed too close.
Her grey-green eyes flickered, anger, then something sharper, something uncertain.
Victor smiled, slow and knowing. "You could just say you were bored. I'm sure nobody would hear a thing if we get loud."
Color exploded across her cheeks.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
[LUST +10]
Then her elbow met his jaw in a vicious crack, and the hold dissolved into a tangle of limbs, curses, and the sharp sting of his own laughter.