The ticking was constant. It was a rhythmic, mechanical heartbeat that pulsed through the floorboards, a jarring contrast to the chaotic, wet coughs of the East Borough. Victor sat on a three-legged stool in the cramped backroom of a shop in Cherwood, the district where the smog was slightly thinner and the desperation slightly quieter.
His "negotiation" with the shop owner, an elderly, stooped man named Mr. Egmont, had been his most delicate hunt yet. Victor didn't have money for rent, nor did he have the strength for heavy labor. What he had was a pair of blue eyes that looked like they belonged to a fallen prince and a tongue that could weave a spider's web of necessity.
"You're behind on your commissions, Mr. Egmont," Victor had said, leaning against the counter earlier that evening, his ruined Intis coat artfully draped to hide the worst of the grime. "Your apprentice ran off with your silver solder, and your eyes aren't what they were ten years ago. You need someone to haul the coal for the forge, keep the displays polished, and—more importantly—someone who can speak to the upper-middle-class ladies without making them feel like they're in a sewer."
It was a gamble. Victor knew nothing about clocks, but he knew how a businessman looked when he was drowning.
Egmont had grunted, but he hadn't kicked Victor out. He had offered him the attic—a space so small Victor couldn't stand up straight—and a loaf of black bread a day in exchange for fourteen hours of work.
Now, sitting in that attic, Victor finally took off his coat. The fabric made a dry, cracking sound as it folded. Beneath it, his body was a map of survival. His ribs were no longer bruised, thanks to the Hunter potion's eerie regeneration, but he was painfully thin. The Anakin-like sharpness of his jawline was now a jagged edge.
This is my first territory, Victor thought, staring at a small, circular window that looked out over the rooftops of Backlund.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bronze medal. In the dim light of a single tallow candle, the bonfire relief seemed to flicker. He gripped it tight, half-expecting the "resonance" he had felt in his delirium to return, but the medal remained cold.
He spent the next few hours looking through the window. From here, he could see the boundary where the "clean" air of Cherwood met the "sludge" of East Borough. He watched the way the street lamps were lit, the patterns of the night watchmen, and the movement of the stray cats. He was learning the geometry of the city.
A Hunter didn't just track animals; he tracked the flow of the world. He noticed which chimneys produced the most smoke and which alleys remained perpetually dark.
His stomach growled, a low, persistent reminder of his poverty. He took a bite of the black bread. It was hard as a stone and tasted of sawdust, but to Victor, it was a tactical victory. He was no longer sleeping in a puddle. He was no longer wondering if he would freeze to death before dawn.
He had successfully used his speaking skills to bridge the gap between a homeless ghost and a functioning member of the working class. He hadn't fought a single person, yet he had secured a fortress.
The Hunter isn't the one who kills the most, Victor mused, his eyes narrowing as he watched a distant shadow move across a rooftop. The Hunter is the one who survives the longest with the least.
He lay down on the hard wooden floor, using his ruined coat as a pillow. The constant ticking from the shop below synchronized with his heartbeat. He felt the Hunter potion settling deeper into his marrow, satisfied with his progress.
He was Victor Sauron, a scavenger, a maggot in the heart of the empire. But tomorrow, he would begin to watch the people who walked into the shop. He would learn their secrets, their fears, and their needs.