Chapter 5: Setting Up Shop
The docks were a brutal, beautiful symphony of labor. The air was a heavy mix of salt spray from the distant ocean, the coppery tang of iron, and the pervasive, choking scent of coal dust. The ground, a muddy, viscous sludge, sucked at Luca's boots with every step. The sound was a constant, rhythmic roar: the clang of metal on metal, the groaning of ropes, the shouts of men, and the mournful wail of a ship's horn. It was a world of brawn and muscle, a world Luca was completely unprepared for.
He found a job as a dockworker, a low-risk position with a low chance of Shelby interference. The work was simple and backbreaking: he carried heavy sacks of coal and crates of goods from the ships to the warehouses. He was a small, quiet presence among the giants of the docks, men with shoulders like oxen and hands like shovels. They saw him as a curiosity, a fresh-faced lad who was too quiet and too clean for this kind of work.
He learned quickly, his body screaming in protest with every lift, every heave. "Data analysis was never this physical. My back's killing me. The System never mentioned manual labor as a core function." His internal monologue was a series of silent, pained complaints, a stark contrast to the Gambler's Calm that kept his expression a placid mask. He had used his winnings to buy supplies—a small, but steady stream of shillings going to low-profile shops. He bought tools, rope, and a sturdy, canvas sack to carry it all.
"Skill points? Right. I'm not just a player; I'm a character in a bad video game. Next, the System will tell me I need to find a legendary sword and a pair of enchanted boots." The physicality of his new life was a brutal, tangible reality. He wasn't just manipulating numbers; he was a body in a space, a small, fragile thing that could be broken. It was a sobering thought, and it made him realize this wasn't just a game. It was his life. He felt the cold, hard logic of the System settle over him. Survival wasn't just about strategy; it was about brute force.
He carried the supplies back to his safehouse, a slow, methodical march through the city's labyrinthine streets. He was no longer the disoriented, terrified man he had been just a few days ago. He was a man with a purpose, a man with a plan. He was still a small pawn, but he was a pawn with an agenda.
The empty warehouse was cold and damp, a cavernous space where the sound of their footsteps echoed like the report of a rifle. It was a place of cold, transactional business, a far cry from the cramped, warm diners where they had first met. Luca stood in the center of the dusty, echoing room, a small, solitary figure. Finn, the street urchin, looked even smaller in the vast, empty space. He was a bundle of raw nerves, his eyes darting to every corner of the room, a practiced caution in his movements.
Luca held out a handful of shillings. "For your troubles," he said, his voice quiet in the silence.
Finn's hand, a small, filthy thing, shot out and snatched the coins. He counted them quickly, his fingers a blur of motion. "You're a generous fella, mister. Too generous for a man who lives in an alley."
Luca didn't smile. "I'm not in an alley anymore. I'm in the business of information. And you, Finn, are my primary source."
Finn looked at him, his cynicism a hard, bitter shell. "And what's this 'information' worth to you, then?"
"You tell me what you see," Luca said. "You're a shadow. You see things other people miss. You tell me about the Shelbys. Their runners. Their habits."
Finn, his eyes still wary, began to talk. He spoke of the Shelby operations with the easy familiarity of a man who had been watching them his whole life. He spoke of the routes the runners took, the places they frequented, the habits they had. He gave a detailed, street-level view of the Shelby empire, a view no amount of System data could have given him.
Luca, listening, felt a profound sense of gratitude. "This boy is an asset, he thought. A valuable one. He had to secure him."
"You got a good eye, kid," Luca said, his voice low. "Better than most. I'll pay you to keep it peeled for me. A shilling a day. Just for listening. And a few more for things that matter."
Finn's cynical shell cracked. He stared at the coins, then at Luca, a look of profound disbelief on his face. "A shilling a day? What do I gotta do for that kinda money? Sell my soul?"
"The kid's got a good head on his shoulders. He knows a deal that sounds too good to be true, probably is." He realized then that trust, in this world, was a currency far more valuable than any shilling.
"No," Luca said, his voice even. "You just gotta tell me what you see. No lies. No secrets."
Luca tried to explain the concept of data analysis to him, his mind still stuck in his old professional habits. "You see, it's all about pattern recognition. You see a runner go to the same pub at the same time every day. That's a pattern. That's a vulnerability."
Finn just stared at him, his brow furrowed in confusion. "You talk funny, mister." A moment of genuine, unforced humor. It was a small, human thing that cut through the cold, transactional air of the warehouse.
As a final test, Luca probed for something specific. "Is there a place the Shelbys are watching? A place with a lot of activity?"
Finn, without a moment's hesitation, mentioned a specific gambling den the Shelbys were keeping a close eye on. "They're losing money there. The house always wins, but they're losing. And they don't like it one bit."
Luca, with his new intel, knew his next move. The warehouse, with its echoing emptiness, was no longer just a place of business. It was now a place of secrets, a place where a new kind of power was being forged.
The safehouse was still cold, still damp, but it felt different now. It was no longer just a hiding place. It was a home. Luca laid out his supplies, a small collection of meager tools and a few shillings. He felt a profound sense of satisfaction. It was a fragile stability, a peace that could be broken at any moment, but it was his.
He was organizing a pile of wood when the System's alert flared in his vision.
Luca, intrigued, knelt and ran his hand over the floorboards. He found it then, a small, almost invisible seam in the wood. He pried it open and found a small, dusty cache of forgotten items: a few faded ledgers, a pack of cards, and a rusty lockbox. He opened the lockbox and found a single, tarnished shilling. A pathetic treasure, but a treasure all the same.
"Well, well," Luca thought, a grim amusement settling over him. "Looks like I'm not the first one to try and get away from the Shelbys." The discovery of the hidden panel and the System's insight provided him with a grim sense of solidarity with the house's previous owner. He felt both a sense of relief—that he wasn't alone in his struggle—and a chill of foreboding. The house was a sanctuary, but it was a sanctuary with a violent history. He realized that this place, this little sliver of sanctuary, had a bloody past. The previous owner had tried to get away, to hide from the Shelbys, and he had failed. He was a warning, a grim message from the past. He wondered what had happened to him. Had he been found? Had he been killed? The thought was a cold, hard knot in his stomach.
The System's "Insight" was a grim piece of foreshadowing, a clue that would pay off when the previous owner's old enemies, people who were looking for him . The house was a sanctuary, but it was also a trap.
Luca, with a new purpose, a new mission, pulled out a map. He had a sanctuary, and he had a target. He had a plan. He was no longer just a survivor. He was a player. He was ready for the next round.
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