The city smelled of rust, smoke, and lies.
Camsin pulled her hood lower as she moved through the narrow alleys, the kind where shadows lingered longer than the sun dared. Nineteen years old now, but she carried the look of someone older — the kind of sharp, dangerous gaze only born from violence and hunger.
Her boots splashed through puddles left from the night's rain. In her fist, she clenched a folded scrap of paper — a name written in shaky ink. A lead. Maybe her first real one in years.
Jareth Coil.
The man was a nobody to the city, just another drunk who lived in the back of a gambling den. But to her, he was something else entirely — a thread in the tangled web of her father's death. Rumor said he'd once worked for men who killed in whispers, the kind of men who didn't leave witnesses.
Her heart beat harder at the thought.
As she neared the gambling den, laughter and curses spilled out from inside. The heavy door groaned as she shoved it open, revealing thick smoke, stained tables, and men with too much whiskey in their blood. The kind who noticed every stranger.
Camsin didn't care.
Her hand brushed the knife strapped against her thigh — the only friend she could truly count on. She walked straight toward the back table, where Jareth Coil slumped, a greasy beard hiding half his face. His eyes flicked up, sharp despite the drink.
"You lost, girl?" he slurred, voice rough with suspicion.
Camsin's lips curled into a thin smile. "No. I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."
She slammed the paper with his name on the table. The men nearby glanced up, sensing the storm behind her words.
Jareth's hand twitched toward the bottle. Maybe for a drink. Maybe for the knife she saw half-hidden at his belt.
Before he could move, Camsin leaned forward, her voice low and dangerous.
"You knew my father. Arlan. Thirteen years ago. He died in blood. You're going to tell me why."
The room seemed to freeze. Dice hung in midair. Even the smoke paused, curling slow.
Jareth's eyes widened. For the first time, he looked afraid.
Jareth's hand hovered near his belt, trembling. His eyes darted the gambling den as if searching for help, but none of the other men moved. They'd seen enough fights to know when a storm was about to break — and Camsin was the storm.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Jareth muttered, reaching for his bottle.
Camsin's knife was out before he could blink, the blade gleaming under the smoky lantern light. She drove it into the table so close to his hand that wood splintered against his knuckles.
"Try again," she hissed.
The room went silent. Dice rolled off a table and clattered to the floor.
Jareth's breath quickened, his shoulders shaking. "I— I was just a runner. They paid me to deliver messages, nothing more. I didn't—"
Camsin slammed his head against the table so hard the bottles rattled. She held him down by the greasy hair, her blade pressing into his cheek. Her bloodthirst was a fire, and this man was dry wood waiting to burn.
"You were there the night my father died," she said, her voice steady, cold. "You saw who killed him. Give me a name… or bleed on this floor."
Jareth whimpered, a grown man breaking under the weight of a girl's fury. Sweat mixed with the grime on his face.
"The Scarred One!" he gasped. "That's what they called him. A man with a scar from temple to jaw. I never knew his real name, I swear—"
Camsin froze. The image of that scar was burned into her memory, from the night she hid at the stairs as a child.
Her grip tightened. "Where?"
Jareth's lips trembled. "East docks. The Crimson Syndicate. They— they run everything there. He's still alive. Still killing."
The knife pressed deeper. Her mind screamed at her to end him here. But another voice whispered — her father's voice — Run.
Camsin released him with a shove. Jareth sagged back into his chair, shaking, relief washing over him.
And then she drove the knife straight into his shoulder. He howled, clutching at the wound.
"That's for waiting thirteen years to open your filthy mouth," she said, ripping the blade free. "Pray we don't meet again."
She turned and walked out of the den as the gamblers parted for her like shadows fleeing the light. Behind her, Jareth's screams mixed with the clatter of dice and broken glass.
The city's night air hit her like cold steel. Her blood was hot, her heart hammering. At last, she had a direction. A name.
The Scarred One.