The morning after the theft came gray and silent.
The city smelled of wet stone and smoke, and the alleys still bled rainwater into the gutters like open wounds.
The boy sat beneath the broken awning behind the old tannery, hands trembling around the strip of cloth he used to bind his wound. His palm still burned where the nail had torn through his flesh. The bleeding had stopped hours ago, but the pain hadn't dulled. It pulsed — slow, deep, as though something under the skin refused to heal.
The box lay beside him, half-hidden under his cloak. He hadn't dared to open it again. The memory of what he'd seen — that twitching hand, the cold rush of pain — still clawed at the edges of his mind.
He unwrapped his palm to check the wound. The skin around it had darkened, faintly bruised with thin veins branching outward. It looked sickly, wrong — like ink spreading through paper.
He cursed under his breath and tightened the cloth again.
He couldn't stay hidden forever. The sun was rising. The slum was already waking — merchants shouting, dogs barking, water spilling from broken pipes. If Madam Sura found out he'd gone missing for too much time, she'd throw him out.
He pushed himself up, dizzy for a moment as the world tilted. His vision swam, the edges blurring before snapping back into focus. He spat, shook it off, and before started walking.
The streets were the same as ever — cracked and narrow, coated with filth, alive with people pretending to survive. He looked over saw no one suspicious, no one persuading him. He started stealthy walking towards Red District.
By the time he reached the Red District, the sun had climbed above the fog. Light filtered through the tattered banners and paper lanterns, painting the streets in dull red. The air smelled of smoke, sweat, and the faint sweetness of perfume masking decay.
He slipped in through the back of the brothel. The kitchen was warm, firewood crackling, cheap stew bubbling in an iron pot. A few girls were half-awake, brushing their hair or cleaning spilled wine.
Madam Sura stood near the doorway, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, sharp eyes tracing the room like knives.
When she saw him, she raised an eyebrow.
"Where've you been, rat?"
He froze, forcing his voice steady. "Got caught in the rain. Slept near the tannery."
Her gaze lingered on him. She was a tall woman, age carved in her face but still carrying that dangerous beauty — the kind that made men forget how poor they were.
"Rain doesn't make you vanish for a night," she said, voice low. "And it sure doesn't put that look in your eyes."
He lowered his head. "Didn't mean to worry you, Madam."
"You didn't," she said curtly, turning away. "But don't disappear again. Not unless you want to be the next corpse floating in the gutter."
He nodded. She didn't press further. She rarely did. In the Red District, secrets were common currency, and no one paid for what wasn't theirs.
---
By midday, the streets had changed. Rumors moved faster than the wind.
Some said Kareth's men had found bodies near the eastern warehouses — guards stripped of rank and head. Others whispered that someone had stolen from the underworld vault, that a boy had done it and vanished.
No one spoke too loudly. Kareth was the kind of man who made rumors true by killing enough people.
The boy stayed out of sight. He helped Rin sweep the front hall, served drinks to drunk patrons, and tried to look like he belonged. She was paler than before, but still smiled when he brought her bread.
"You're shaking," she said quietly. "Are you sick?"
He looked down at his hand — gloved now, hidden. "Just cold."
She frowned but didn't push. She never did. She was too kind for this place, too fragile. He sometimes wondered how long she'd last.
When she turned away, he looked at her back — thin, trembling with each breath. The thought of losing her sent something sharp through his chest.
He clenched his fist until the pain in his palm forced him to let go.
---
That night, the district buzzed with unease.
Men whispered in corners, brothels closed their doors early, and Madam Sura kept glancing toward the entrance.
The boy sat in the corner of the kitchen, pretending to mend a torn satchel. Every so often, a wave of dizziness hit him — brief, disorienting, leaving a faint ringing in his ears. The air seemed heavier each time, as if the world pressed against his skull.
Then came the knock.
Three short taps — deliberate.
Sura straightened immediately. "Open it," she told one of the girls.
A tall man stepped in, his coat soaked, his face half-hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. He moved like someone used to being feared — quiet, confident, precise.
"Marlow," Sura greeted, her voice colder than usual.
"Mistress Sura." He tipped his hat slightly. "Kareth sends his regards."
The boy's stomach tightened. He kept his head down, pretending to focus on his stitching.
Marlow's boots left muddy prints as he walked in. "We're looking for someone," he said. "A man who used to deal around Raven Alley. Called himself Hadrik. Seen him?"
Sura shook her head. "Not in months. He owed half the city money. Probably rotting in the gutters."
Marlow smiled faintly. "Maybe. But he was seen talking to someone the night before he vanished. A boy."
The room went quiet.
Sura's eyes didn't waver. "A boy? You think I keep track of every rat that runs these streets?"
"Usually," Marlow said, still smiling. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Kareth's losing patience. Whatever was taken — he wants it back. Anyone caught holding secrets dies with them."
Sura's expression didn't change, but the tension in her shoulders was visible. "I've got nothing to hide. You can search the place if you like."
Marlow's gaze swept the room — briefly passing over the boy. For a moment, their eyes met. The boy's chest went still.
Then Marlow looked away, smirking. "No need. If the rat's here, he'll crawl out soon enough."
He tipped his hat again and turned for the door.
Before leaving, he said quietly, "If you hear anything, Madam, come to me first. The boss pays well for loyalty."
The door shut behind him.
The silence that followed felt heavier than the rain outside.
Sura didn't speak. She stood there for a long moment, listening to the sound of footsteps fading into the street. Then she exhaled sharply, her voice low. "If you've done anything stupid, boy, don't drag me into it."
He looked up, forcing confusion onto his face. "What do you mean?"
She didn't answer. She just turned and walked away.
---
Later that night, the boy lay on the floor beside Rin's cot. She had fallen asleep early, her breathing shallow but steady. Candlelight flickered over her face.
He pressed a hand against his bandaged palm. The pain had worsened. The veins around it seemed darker now, spreading further up the wrist. A faint tremor shook his fingers.
He whispered to himself, "Just a wound. Just a wound."
But deep inside, he knew it wasn't.
Every beat of his heart felt wrong, like some invincible sharp needles waiting for piercing his heart — something slower, colder.
He turned toward the window. Rain was falling again, soft and endless.
Outside, somewhere beyond the maze of alleys, Kareth's men were still searching.
He just sat there, breathing hard, feeling the world tilt again.