"Fight back" The words struck him, each one matching a blow more forceful than the last, but Bellamy only registered the pressure rather than any stinging sensation. He was a mountain of a man, 6'3", with the constitution of someone used to working in a steel mill, but tonight, he wasn't here to fight – he was here to play a part. The blows came hard and fast; steel-toed boots slammed into his ribs, and fists glanced off his jaw. To the untrained eye, it looked brutal, eight people standing in a circle, launching kicks meant to topple the man and smacks to the side when he stumbled. Blood dripped from a gash on his brow as he lost vision due to the sudden swelling.

  The blood seemed to freeze almost instantly, the biting cold and wind stealing the warmth from his body. Still, Bellamy felt nothing. His body was a tool, and he used it to sell the illusion of pain. He grimaced, snarled, and lowered his stance to protect his vital organs with the grace of a man getting jumped, all the while keeping his mind sharp and his movements deliberate.

  As the goons continued their assault, Bellamy's eyes continued darting around, calculating. He spotted his opportunity when one of the attackers, a wiry thug with a sneer, leaned in too close. Bellamy took a half step back, letting the man's force carry him forward, wavering as he slipped on the ice. Before gravity could take him, Bellamy surged forward, fist raised high as he caught the man in the chest, spiking him into frost-covered concrete. Bellamy leapt on the thug, no longer sneering, and began to tear at coat and limb.

  His goal wasn’t to hurt the scrawny fellow, just as their goal wasn't to hurt him, although this part had been off-script just a little bit. Bellamy enjoyed taking creative liberties where he could. Amid the tangle of limbs, he shoved his hand into the victim’s coat pocket, slipping the wallet he found there neatly into his sleeve. He had planned to disengage from the pile afterwards, but his timing was off – a punch smashed into his nose, knocking him off the man and leaving him flat on his back.

  After that, the others descended upon him, a flurry of blows and kicks that he knew would bruise or tear muscle. Even though he wouldn't feel the pain, it still sucked for the next few days, his muscles would be tight, and his mobility would grow far worse. Many times before he found himself reaching up to a shelf only for his arm to resist him, much to his confusion.

  The blows continued, with greater viciousness than what was appreciated for a solid minute before a voice rang out. "That's enough," the gang's leader, Viracio, called out. He flicked a lit cigar to the ground nearby like a prick. He stepped forward – slicked back black hair covered by a velvet baker’s boy hat – smiling as he looked at the gathered assembly of workers huddled behind the open chain link gate. He bent down next to Bellamy, speaking in a low tone that wouldn't carry to the other factory workers, "They're pissing their pants man, you were worth every cent."

  Bellamy grinned, blood pooling in his mouth and dripping from his nose. "Tell me that when the medical bill comes in."

  Viracio laughed, rising up before winding back a kick of his own, which he let loose into the tall man's stomach. "Well then, I might as well get my hours worth. Regardless …"

  The man trailed off as he straightened his suit and began speaking loud enough for the cowering workers to hear, "That's enough I think. I get it. Trust me, I do. You gotta look out for you and your own. But when you cross that picket line, you're hurtin' everyone. None of my boys here enjoyed this little beatdown we had to put on you. Isn't that right, boys?"

  From the surrounding thugs, there was a chorus of grunts of agreement, although the wiry, not so sneering anymore goon, shot vicious glances at some of the workers, a nice touch, in Bellamy's opinion. Shame he brought his wallet to this little act.

  "They don't like it one bit," Viracio continued with false sympathy. "And I don't like watching to make sure they don't skimp out on it either. Now you're a big man. That makes you lucky. Means that you'll still be up and about tomorrow or the next"

  He let the threat hang in the air, not sparing a glance at the targets it was actually meant for. "And you're double lucky that I prefer to handle things with words. So that's what we're gonna do, and what you're going to do is not go into that factory tomorrow or next week, not until they've signed the contract."

  Bellamy spat to the side, his voice raspy as he forced out, "You have a job for me then?" He didn't have to fake the rasp. Just because he couldn’t feel the beating didn’t mean his body hadn’t been put through the wringer.

  Viracio chuckled, stepping forward. "Man, I've got people begging for work. Goods, info, cleaners, anything. I can barely keep up, and ain't none of them crossed that picket line, but you factory folk are hardy men. If you're serious, come see me at the Last Dance, and I'll see where we can set up a steel head like yourself."

  Job almost done. Now, he just needed to wait for the final threat and be seen limping his way to the bar later that night. A respected steel worker, swallowing his pride and working for Viracio, is later seen walking out with an envelope of money that no one working in the slums or the current economy should reasonably be able to see. The man would likely see an increase in recruits and runners in the next few days due to the display. Maybe it'd backfire, maybe it'd be temporary, hell, maybe it wouldn't even work, but that wasn't his business. His business right now was to be a punching bag.

  Viracio smiled a sickly sweet smile. "And remember, I know you scabs get itchy and antsy, so if you even think about crossing that line tomorrow, next week, anytime… You'd better get good at running. ‘Cuz if I see you again, it'll be the last time you use your legs."

  Bellamy gave a short nod, blood trickling from his mouth. It didn't hurt – his body was numb – but he made sure to sell the act. Only after the nod did Viracio signal his men to disperse. One of the goons stepped back, patting his coat pockets. He frowned, realizing his wallet was missing. His eyes darted to the icy ground searching for his belonging as the rest of the goons walked off. The man opened his mouth to speak, but a sharp, dangerous glare from Viracio had him snap his mouth shut with such force Bellamy was convinced the man cracked a molar.

  Only after they were gone did Bellamy shift onto his side and push himself to his feet before limping back to the other workers. Some rushed forward, catching him before he could fall forward. A chorus of "are you okays" and "damn man's" were thrown about. The foreman wore a heavy scowl on his face. Bellamy could hear him begin talking in low whispers to those around him, organizing … something. Bellamy shrugged. Whatever they did from here on out, it didn't exactly concern him, so instead, he grinned and let out a laugh before sliding the stolen wallet out from his sleeve, "got 'em back for the blows, though." Silence rippled out through the crowd of workers before it broke out into pockets of laughter. Some people looked worried. Others just laughed and clapped him on the back. With an order from the foreman an overturned apple box was brought over for Bellamy to rest on, and soon the cold yard was alight with the workers’ chatter.

  The foreman found him after some time, in one hand he held a travel first aid kit and the other stuck out to greet him. "Sorry that happened to you, son. Let's get you patched up and taken home.”

  Bellamy took the hand, recalling the foreman's name – Gregor – as the older man began patching him up. Despite his thinning hair and age, Gregor’s senses hadn’t dulled. His needlework was clean and quick, his wrinkled, veiny hands held Bellamy’s head with a strength that was almost shocking; Bellamy guessed that those old fists could dish a beating twice as bad as Viracio’s thugs. More than a few burn marks across his wrinkled arms – badges of honor from decades of molten steel and cut corners. With those marks, and the scent of grease masked by cheap tobacco, Gregor seemed almost a walking relic, plucked from the days where steel milling was honest work done by honest men who were rewarded with honest pay.

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  "I appreciate it," he responded coolly. The man said something else, but it all faded as Bellamy thumbed through the wallet. It was all he could do to distract himself from the sticky sensation the bandages left him with. The constant light pressure was an annoyance only heightened by the tightening of his face brought about by the stitches. He knew it was the best, but consequences be damned he’d rather just let it bleed. He turned his mind back to the wallet.

  One week and two days. That's how much time he just bought himself with today's stunt. He allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk as the words finally registered. "Thanks for the offer, and for patching me up … I have some errands I have to run first".

  The foreman extended his hand once more in farewell, "Will I see you tomorrow?" he asked, brow raised.

  Bellamy hesitated, then clasped the offered hand. "We'll see." he spoke without looking Gregor in the eyes, a small flush of shame burning across his face that he pushed back down.

  Gregor grunted, reaching into his coat. "Take this," he said, thrusting a dented flask into Bellamy's grip. "For the road. It's colder than a dragon's heart out here. Helps with the pain too".

  Bellamy almost smiled. He would've taken it if he had truly been hurt by Viracio's goons. If it hadn't just been a job for him. So, in the end, he unscrewed the lid for the barest hint of a swig, "Just a little for the road, but save the rest for your old bones."

  Gregor's gaze lingered on the blood freezing on Bellamy's sleeve and shrugged, "Suit yourself, just be careful out there."

  With one last goodbye, Bellamy limped down the street. The meat market wasn't far from here, and he was getting hungry. He breathed out, leaving no trace of mist in the biting cold – a dead giveaway to his undead nature if anyone was around to notice.

  The meat markets weren't so much a centralized spot, but rather a series of unassuming stores littered throughout the city. Very few of the owners of the shops knew they were part of the market. It was mostly specific workers who came in during specific shifts that had what people like him needed.

  The bell above the door jingled as he pushed it open, the sound almost cheerful against the grim backdrop of the slums. The shop was simple, unremarkable –shelves lined with canned goods, a glass counter at the back displaying cuts of meat. Behind it stood Kye, a stocky woman with arms like steel cables and a gaze that could cut through bone. A butcher through and through.

  "Evenin' Kye," Bellamy said, his voice low but carrying an undertone of respect. He nodded towards the counter. "Business booming?"

  Kye ignored his small talk, glancing him up and down, her expression unreadable, "Tough one ain't ya?"

  Bellamy, for his part, didn't respond, just made sure the door was closed behind him before stepping closer. He leaned against the counter, his bulk casting shadows over the display case. "Any exotic cuts?"

  The question was a formality but a necessary one. He'd never seen one firsthand, but everyone knew the stories of the Brinn – creatures that slipped into the skin of the living, inheriting memories and replacing them. Old wives' tales, maybe, but in the slums, even myths had teeth.

  Kye's hands disappeared beneath the counter, no doubt resting on the shotgun she kept there. "Anything specific?"

  "Something fired," Bellamy replied, the second part of this week's code.

  With a grunt, Kye returned her hands from underneath the counter and slid open a nearby meat fridge, rifling through the packages.

  "How much you got on you?"

  Bellamay flipped through the ill-gotten wallet, "Looks like twelve Ord, an IOU for a lap dance at Penny's, and some business cards."

  Kye snorted but stared at Bellamy expectantly.

  "I'm good for eighty more Ord, though, I finished a job for Viracio, picking up the rest later tonight.

  Kye said nothing but crossed her arms and considered Bellamy for a few moments. "Guess you haven't heard. Congregations in town. Prices are up, payment up front".

  "Well," Bellamy began, "shit." It wasn't eloquent, but it was the only thought that cut through the haze of a growing frustration. Suddenly, his fortunate windfall had not just turned for the worse but dove straight for the sewers. He was broke, had less food than he thought, and now had to go into hiding unless he wanted the Congregation's sniffers on his trail. They'd come to the slums – they always did.

  With a nod, he slid the twelve Ord across the counter – a ten and a two. It wouldn't be the end of the world, but he felt the reaper breathing down his neck as Kye began wrapping less meat than he wanted. A whole half pound missing, 36 hours up in smoke.

  "Thanks for the heads-up Kye" he sighed, slumping against the counter. "Don't know what I'd do without you."

  A snort was her only response as she finished packaging the meat and slid it across the counter. But before Bellamy could take it, her hand stayed firm on the package.

  "It's not enough," she said, her voice low. "I'm off in less than an hour, I doubt you'll get paid by then. If the Congregation wasn't in town maybe you could make it. But your brother …"

  Bellamy shrugged, his expression unreadable. "I'll figure it out. I always do". He pulled at the package, but Kye's grip didn't bulge.

  "Aye, you do," she said, tone cutting. "But you're reckless, and we can't afford recklessness right now, Bell. The Congregation is here for their March of Purification. We'll be lucky if they're only rounding people up for a month. Face it. You're out of good options.

  Her words punctured, not simply because they were cruel words, but because they were true. Not much in life cuts deeper than a cruel truth. He couldn't get enough to buy meat from a distributor like Kye, not when they were all about to go into hiding, which left only rippers – and that came with its own risks. Essence taint, getting murdered, it being a set-up, and then him being forced to march. Killing someone himself for meat wasn't an option either; the Congregation would sick one of their sniffers on any missing person, and that trail would lead straight to him. Even killing one of the undocumented Verdan wouldn't solve his problems. As much as he hated to admit it, The Congregation wasn't stupid. They'd still pick up the trail.

  "Well, unless you have work for me," he said, trying to sound nonchalant, "Reckless is how it's going to have to be". It was a dangerous gamble. He knew what cult Kye was a part of, and they didn't take disruptions well.

  Kye studied him momentarily, then reached under the counter again. Bellamy tensed, and his instincts screamed, but he kept himself in check. Kye pulled out eight more packages of meat and a small box, and suddenly Bellamy's breath caught in his throat. The essence glowed faintly, a swirling vortex of colors – deep blues and greens shifting like liquid smoke. It was pure, concentrated power, the kind that could sustain an undead like him for months. To those who hadn't partaken in essence, it was invisible, but to him, it was ambrosia, a lifeline and a curse all at once. Each color hinted at its origin, tied to a Greater Power, though Bellamy couldn't tell which color meant what. Few knew the secrets of essence, far fewer than those who communed or consumed.

  He swallowed hard, his mind racing. That was a month's worth of food minimum if he ate like a glutton. And the essence, the essence alone, could keep him going for much longer.

  Kye smiled, a knowing glint in her eye. "Ah, I guessed you'd recognize this. Wasn't sure if you'd taken essence, but that look... Never seen it on anyone else but a harbinger. You'll know, then, essence doesn't come cheap".

  It was a strange feeling, being seen through so completely. Terrifying, in a way that was hard to describe – a mix of exposure and vulnerability. Bellamy didn't enjoy it. He would've liked to say he was a wise, thoughtful man. That he weighed the consequences. That he considered his options, but the truth was simpler, cleaner. He was desperate. She knew it.

  "What's the job?”

  She gestured to the box of essence, “Find out where this came from.”