Ashlan Quarter always smells like meat gone wrong. Fat-slick cobbles, tar-stained alleys, and the iron tang of blood that never quite leaves your nose. Even when the rain comes, it only makes it worse.

  Hooks sends me there with one job: track the man in the brown coat. Don’t lose him. Don’t let him see you. Don’t come back without a name.

  The man weaves through carts and beggars with the ease of someone who’s done this before. His coat is frayed at the bottom. One arm favors the weight of something beneath.

  I follow from half a block behind. My feet are quiet now. My breathing shallow. My eyes don’t blink when the dust gets in them. Ashlan cuts your eyes, burns your lungs. You learn not to notice.

  The Quarter is louder today—crates being slammed open, fish heads tossed into gutters, someone yelling about underweight sacks from the Hollows. A beggar shuffles past me with no legs, dragging himself on a slab of splintered wood. No one moves to help him.

  He meets three people. A woman in a veil. A tall man with red rings on every finger. And someone I can’t see, tucked behind a crate where shadows crowd.

  I brush past him in the crowd, fingers grazing the edge of his coat just above the wrist. A jolt—faint, like touching cold metal.

  I mark him.

  A heartbeat later, his voice slides into my skull like breath through cloth. Dull. Careful. "Two more crates. Tell Bishop it’ll be clean."

  He’s one of ours, then. Or close to it.

  I keep my distance.

  Ashlan is crowded, but I use it—duck behind crates, mirror a beggar’s shuffle. When the man glances back, I’m already looking the other way, part of the noise. The trick is to never stand still, never draw a line between steps.

  I follow him for nearly an hour. I don’t feel the time. Pain’s familiar now—dull as background noise. When he finally leaves the Quarter, I trail him back toward the edge of the trade lanes where his contact disappears into a gated side street. Everything about him says routine. Confidence. He doesn’t expect to be watched.

  Then he speaks again.

  "Next shipment moves through the south tunnel. Tell the Koll to have the bribes ready."

  That’s what I came for.

  I back off and slip away, careful not to draw attention. The mark still hums in the back of my head. I could dismiss it—just a thought, and it would vanish. But I keep it. Just in case.

  I move through the alleys, backtracking toward the warehouse. Ashlan swallows the sun fast. By the time I make it back, the air is colder, the ground slick with waste runoff and grease. The smell clings to your clothes. Some men in Deadreach carry the stink of this place like armor.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  Hooks is waiting by the fire pit behind the warehouse.

  I give the names. The message. The route.

  He listens. Then grunts.

  "Took you long enough."

  I brace for a fist. A kick. Something.

  Instead, he tosses me a half-full canteen, a strip of dried meat, and two silver coins.

  I stare at them like they’re fake.

  Silvers.

  Enough for a hot meal. Maybe even a night on a mattress with a blanket. As decent as anything gets in Deadreach.

  It’s been nearly a year. A year of silence, fists, cold floors, and bruises. No pay. No kindness. No breaks.

  Hooks doesn’t look back.

  "Day's yours. Don’t waste it."

  He disappears into the dark.

  I sit there a long time, just holding the coin.

  I could eat somewhere warm. Sleep somewhere dry.

  And that’s when the thought hits me—how stupid that is. How soft.

  I pocket them.

  Only an idiot wastes their pay.

  From the shadows near the alley wall, I catch a glimpse of Hooks still watching, just for a second.

  He grins. Like he heard my thoughts.

  Ashlan dirt still clings to my skin, but it feels different now.

  It feels like something I took, not something left on me.

  As I walk, I see her again.

  The wash maiden. Bent over a cracked basin outside a butcher's stall, scrubbing with raw hands. Her face is thinner. One eye bruised. I hadn’t seen her in weeks.

  For a moment, I freeze.

  I’d wondered if she was dead. Wondered if they’d buried her under the mud somewhere, and no one had noticed.

  Then I shut it down.

  That kind of thinking—that’s weakness.

  She doesn't see me. I don’t stop.

  But I walk slower.

  Just in case.

  She looks up as I pass.

  Her eyes catch mine for a breath. Then she glances back down, scrubbing harder, like she hadn’t meant to look at all.

  I stop.

  "You still alive," I say. It comes out more like a statement than a question.

  She nods. Doesn’t speak.

  I don’t know what I expected. A smile? Gratitude?

  I shift on my feet like an idiot. Mouth dry.

  Why am I standing here like this?

  I’ve nearly died a dozen times. I’ve been broken, rebuilt, broken again. I’m training under Hooks—Bishop’s right hand. I’m becoming something they’ll all fear.

  And yet here I am. Tongue-tied in front of a girl who barely looked at me.

  She says nothing. Just watches me fidget, then drops her rag in the basin.

  "Thanks," she mutters, barely audible.

  I open my mouth, but she turns. Pauses in the doorway.

  "Nice to know someone cares if I die. Even if it’s just a stranger."

  It twists something in my chest. Something I don’t know how to name.

  I hear myself speak before I decide to.

  "I’ll save up. Maybe one day I can buy you off for a shift. We’ll go somewhere. Eat something that’s not rot."

  She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t scoff.

  Just gives the tiniest nod.

  Then she disappears into the butcher’s stall.

  I keep walking.

  Faster now.

  Not because I’m embarrassed.

  Because that nod meant more than it should have.

  I spend the next hour wandering Deadreach, but not like before. Not running. Not hiding. Just walking with my head up. I don’t know what that means—if it means anything—but the coin is still in my pocket, warm from my grip.

  I pass the stalls along Gutterline, the ones that smell like boiled onion and piss, and think about food. Real food. Bread not covered in mold. Meat that isn’t mostly bone. I could sit somewhere and eat like someone who matters.

  But I don’t. I buy a small loaf, stale but clean, and a pouch of water. The coins clink lightly in my pocket, and I imagine saving every one until I’ve got enough to pull someone else out of this place for a day.

  The thought makes me feel ridiculous. And then it makes me feel sharp.

  No one gives you anything in Deadreach. You take. You claw. You bleed.

  And still...

  I wonder if she’ll remember what I said.

  I find a broken stairwell behind a collapsed shop and sit there with my bread, knees drawn in. Just eating. Just breathing.

  When the light starts to fade, I think about returning to the safehouse. I think about what tomorrow will be. Another run. Another test. More bruises. And somewhere inside, a mark still hums like a tether.

  But for now, it’s quiet.

  And that has to be enough.