The sky hangs low over Deadreach—gray and cracked like old bone. The kind of morning that promises nothing.

  I move fast. I know where she’ll be.

  The butcher alleys are already slick with runoff and stinking steam. People brush past, eyes hollow, shoulders hunched. No one meets your gaze. That’s the way of it here. Eyes get you killed.

  I find her just past the smokehouse wall, bent over a shallow basin, sleeves rolled, fingers red from scrubbing gods-know-what off butcher leather. Same as before. Same cracked skin. Same focus like the world doesn’t exist beyond the edge of that cloth.

  For a second, I just watch.

  She hasn’t changed.

  And somehow, that makes something ease inside me.

  She’s beautiful. Not in the way the Zenith girls are—nothing gilded or polished. But the kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you. Quiet. Steady. Like something solid you didn’t know you needed until you were standing in front of it, not wanting to leave. Not polished or perfumed or wrapped in silk. But in a way that makes everything else blur around her. Even like this. Especially like this.

  I clear my throat.

  She doesn’t flinch. Just pauses, wrings out the cloth, and glances over her shoulder.

  "You still breathing," she mutters.

  It’s not a question.

  "Barely," I say.

  She nods once and turns back to the basin.

  No thank you. No smile.

  But she didn't tell me to leave either.

  I take that as a win.

  "Got a day off," I say. "Some coin, too. Not from stealing. Real pay."

  She doesn’t say anything, but I see the way her shoulders go still. Listening.

  "Thought maybe you’d want it," I add. "A day. Off. Somewhere not here."

  She’s quiet for a long breath. Then another.

  "I can’t leave till second bell," she says.

  "I’ll wait."

  She doesn’t argue.

  And I know her well enough by now to count that as a yes.

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  A thick-shouldered man lumbers out from the smokehouse door, apron stained, arms folded like old bark. He eyes me, then her, then back to me.

  "You need somethin’?"

  "Her time," I say. Calm. Direct.

  He raises a brow. "She still owes the house for the shift."

  I reach into my coat and pull three silvers—just enough to make a point, not enough to make me stupid. I hold them out, not like I’m offering, but like I’m done talking.

  He eyes the coins, then me.

  "And who the hell are you?"

  I meet his gaze without blinking.

  "Graymark."

  The name doesn’t spark fear, not yet. But it catches. He hears it. He feels it.

  He takes the coin.

  "You got her ‘til dusk. After that, she’s mine again."

  I nod once. "Won’t need longer."

  He grunts and disappears back inside.

  She looks at me, not surprised—just tired.

  "You didn’t have to."

  "I know."

  "You didn’t even ask me."

  I shrug. "Figured I would after."

  Her lip twitches. Not a smile. Not quite.

  Then she sighs and wrings out the cloth.

  "I’ve got one more basin to scrub."

  "I’ll be here when you’re done."

  She hesitates. Then nods.

  I lean against the wall, watching her work.

  Because the truth is, I don’t care about the rest of the coin. I could stretch it for months. Eat real food. Sleep in a bed that doesn’t creak like bones. But if I can bring some light to one person in this hellhole—just one—

  I want it to be her.

  After that first conversation, I realized I didn’t even know her name. I watched her work a while, then asked—quiet, careful, like I was afraid the question would scare her off.

  "What do they call you?"

  She didn’t stop scrubbing. Didn’t look at me.

  "Nerra," she said.

  I nodded, mostly to myself.

  It fit. Strong. Simple. The kind of name that survives things. After she said it, I kept it in my mouth a while, quietly, like it was something rare. Something worth saying right.

  ***

  When the basin is done, she dries her hands on the side of her apron and nods once toward the street. "Well? Where to?"

  That catches me. I hadn’t planned this far. Just knew I didn’t want her in that alley today. I rub the back of my neck.

  "Anywhere not here."

  She tilts her head. "That specific, huh?"

  I glance down the alley and grin, just a little. "You’ll see."

  We walk in silence, boots scraping damp stone, the noise of Deadreach dimming as we step away from the butcher blocks. The quiet settles between us—not uncomfortable. Just... unspoken. Like neither of us needs to fill it.

  Her arms stay crossed tight, eyes scanning alleys, always alert. She doesn’t relax. Not really. But she doesn’t walk away either.

  We stop at a stall I spotted a few weeks ago—one that sells tea brewed over charcoal, the scent rich and bitter. I hand the vendor a coin.

  We sit on a crate nearby, steam curling around our fingers.

  Nerra doesn’t speak for a long time.

  Then she says, "This is the nicest thing anyone’s done for me."

  The words land heavier than I expect. Not because of how she says them—but because of what they don't say. No gratitude. No smile. Just truth. Like it surprises her to admit it out loud.

  Like it hurts a little, too.

  I don’t know what to say to that. So I just nod, watching the way she cups the tin like she’s afraid it’ll vanish.

  We sip in silence.

  Then, softly, she adds, "But I’m not going to sleep with you."

  I choke on the tea. Cough once. Blink at her.

  She stares straight ahead, unreadable.

  And then—for the first time in what feels like years—I laugh. Really laugh. Sharp and raw and surprised, like the sound had been waiting for something ridiculous enough to break free.

  "Wasn’t even on my mind," I manage, voice still catching.

  She finally glances over. "Seriously?"

  "Deadreach’s been trying to kill me since I got here. Haven’t exactly had the luxury of thinking about anything else."

  She snorts. "Well. Good. Then we can just drink the damn tea."

  "Deal."

  And we drink in the middle of a rotten city like it’s a secret no one else is allowed to have.