The East Borough did not have streets; it had digestive tracts. To walk through its narrow, winding veins was to be swallowed by the city's filth. Victor had spent five days learning the rhythm of this decay, his stomach now a permanent knot of sharp, acidic longing. The wool vest he had "acquired" from the runner offered a desperate shield against the damp, but it couldn't stop the way his aristocratic Intis coat—now a stiff, soot-caked carapace—chafed against his raw skin.
He was currently standing near the entrance of The Black Rat, a tavern that smelled so strongly of cheap malt and unwashed bodies it felt like a physical barrier. Victor wasn't there to drink; he was there because the tavern sat at a crossroads between the docklands and the textile district—a prime location for gathering the only currency he had left, observations.
He noticed a subtle shift in the crowd. The usual chaotic flow of beggars and laborers was thinning, pulling away from a specific alleyway like water retreating from a predator. Three men emerged. They wore matching caps of dark green wool and carried heavy, lead-weighted canes. They were the 'Black Nails'—the gang that held the throat of this particular quarter.
Victor didn't look away. He knew that for a man who looked like him—a "fell-dandy" with a face that whispered of lost fortunes—avoiding eye contact was a confession of victimhood. Instead, he leaned against a soot-stained brick post, adopting a posture of casual, dangerous indifference.
"You," the lead thug barked, stopping five paces away. He had a face like a crushed walnut and eyes that were nothing but greed. "I've seen you around for three days. You don't work the docks or the mills. You just stand. That costs money, dandy."
Victor's heart hammered against his ribs—a frantic, hollow sound—but his expression remained a mask of frozen nobility. He was still physically weak, his muscles barely holding onto the frame of his body. A single blow from that lead cane would likely shatter his healing ribs.
"I'm waiting for a message," Victor said, his voice a low, steady baritone. He didn't sound like a beggar; he sounded like a man who was momentarily inconvenienced by the lack of a servant.
"The only message you're getting is a one-way trip to the Tussock if you don't empty your pockets," the thug sneered, his companions fanning out to flank Victor.
This was the moment. The Hunter's instinct flared, not with the desire to fight, but with the cold, sharp clarity of the opening. Victor looked at the leader's boots. They were fine leather, mismatched with the rest of his ragged attire. Then he looked at the man's hands—there were faint, yellow stains on the fingertips.
"You should be more worried about your own message," Victor said, his eyes locking onto the leader's with a predatory stillness that made the man hesitate. "The 'Rat-Catcher' was found in the canal this morning, wasn't he? The one who was supposed to deliver the sulfur shipment to your boss?"
The thug's sneer faltered. "How the hell do you know about that?"
Victor didn't know. He had heard two mudlarks whispering about a "yellow-stained body" near the pumping station an hour ago. He was gambling his life on a deduction. The sulfur stains on the thug's fingers and the gang's sudden aggression suggested they were desperate to cover a loss.
"I know because the people I represent don't like it when their investments are lost in the mud," Victor lied, his voice dropping into a chilling, conspiratorial rasp. "Your boss, 'Iron' Miller, is currently looking for someone to blame. If I were you, I wouldn't be standing here wasting time on a man with empty pockets. I'd be wondering why the Rat-Catcher's boat was found empty while you are wearing a new pair of boots that look remarkably like the ones he bought last Tuesday."
The two flanking thugs immediately looked at their leader's feet. The seed of suspicion was planted. In the East Borough, loyalty was a thin veneer over the abyss of betrayal.
"He's lying!" the leader shouted, though his voice had risen an octave in panic. "I bought these off a dead man in Cherwood!"
"Miller won't care where you got them," Victor said, pushing off the post and taking a single, confident step forward. "He'll care that you're suddenly prosperous while his shipment is at the bottom of the river. Now, do you want to keep bothering me, or do you want to find a way to explain those boots before the Nails find out you've been skimming?"
The thugs hesitated. The hierarchy of fear had been inverted. Victor wasn't the prey anymore; he was a mirror reflecting their own inevitable demise.
"Let's go," the leader hissed, his face pale beneath the grime. "He's a ghost. Not worth the trouble."
They retreated, their discipline shattered by the poison Victor had whispered into their ears. Victor stayed perfectly still until they vanished around the corner. Then, and only then, did his knees buckle. He slumped back against the brick, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
Negotiation successful, Victor thought, a bitter, triumphant smile touching his lips.
He had realized the core truth of his new existence, a Hunter in the sludge did not survive by the strength of his arm, for his arm was currently brittle. He survived by the sharpness of his eyes and the ruthlessness of his tongue. He had to find the cracks in the world and wedge himself into them until they broke.
As the yellow smog began to thicken with the coming evening, the temperature dropped. Victor felt the bronze medal in his pocket. It remained a cold, heavy lump of metal, refusing to offer any supernatural aid.
He was still a homeless man. He was still one bad day away from the river. His Intis coat was now so stiff it felt like it was trying to strangle him. But as he looked at the mud on his hands, he didn't feel despair. He felt a cold, hard focus.
He stood up, adjusted his soot-stained coat, and began to walk toward the clockmaker's district. He had heard there was a shop there that needed someone to haul coal—a job that would give him a roof, if only for a few hours.