The Hollow smelled of oil, sweat, and scorched spice. Steam hissed from cracked pipes overhead, dripping onto the packed-earth floor. Stalls sprawled across the cavern like a shanty city inside a ribcage: tarps sagging under old neon signs, vendors barking prices for water, batteries, dried meat. Children darted between legs with quick fingers and empty eyes. Above it all, rickety walkways and dangling cables formed a crooked skyline where the bold moved as easily as rats.

You pushed through the press of bodies, hood low, hand resting on the knife at your hip. You hated the Hollow—the noise, the stink, the way everyone watched you like a cut of meat. But someone here had seen your sister. Someone always saw.

A shout split the market. You glanced left just in time to see a man vault a table stacked with copper scrap, scattering bolts like coins. Tall, lean, tan skin glinting with sweat, green eyes flashing under a cream shemagh. A black scarf covered his mouth. He moved like water, slipping between people, never touching the ground longer than he had to.

Behind him, three men barreled through the crowd with machetes, shoving anyone in their way.

“Zahiri!” one bellowed. “You think you can run forever?”

You turned back toward you own lead—but then you heard a name hissed through the chaos. Not Zahiri’s. Your sister’s.

“She’s worth more than the water she makes,” one hunter snarled. “Tell us where the girl’s headed, thief, and maybe we’ll only take your hands.”

You froze. The rogue—Zahiri, apparently—kicked a crate into the first man’s knees, spun, and climbed a support beam like a lizard. He laughed, a sharp sound muffled by the scarf. “I’d tell you,” he called down, “but I’ve got somewhere to be.”

The hunters followed, shoving aside bystanders. People jeered but gave them space. Nobody interfered here.

Your pulse hammered. If this man knew your sister’s movements, he was your only lead. But he was about to be gutted. Cursing, you shoved through the crowd.

Zahiri swung from a pipe, dropped onto a canvas awning, and rolled off, landing in front of you. Green eyes met yours for an instant—fox-bright, calculating—and then he was off again. The hunters thundered after him.

“Move!” one barked at you, grabbing your arm. You drove your elbow into his ribs, hard. He wheezed, dropped his machete. In the same motion you snatched it and slashed at the second man’s forearm. The crowd roared approval: blood always drew a show.

Zahiri appeared at your side like smoke. “Well,” he said, voice low and rough behind the scarf, “didn’t expect help from a desert wolf.”

“I’m not helping you,” you snapped. “You know my sister. Talk.”

“Later,” he said, and flicked his gaze toward the far end of the cavern where a ladder vanished into shadows. “Unless you like dying in other people’s vendettas.”

Another machete swung at you: you blocked, twisted, and sent the man sprawling. Zahiri grabbed your wrist and yanked. “Come on, fierce one.”

You ran.

Through the market’s spine, ducking under hanging tarps, knocking over barrels of brackish water. Vendors screamed curses. A bullet sparked off a steel pillar beside your head. Zahiri vaulted a stall stacked with dried rats, landed on a crate, and offered you a hand. “Up.”

You ignored his hand and climbed yourself. He grinned under the scarf anyway. “I like you.”

Above, the Hollow’s roof was a maze of planks and cables. Children and messengers clung to it like birds. Zahiri darted along a narrow beam, sure-footed and far too calm. You followed, slower but steady.

“You’re crazy,” you growled.

“Maybe,” he said. “But crazy knows where your sister went.”

You reached a gap over a thirty-foot drop. Zahiri leapt without hesitation, landing in a crouch on the opposite ledge. “Your turn,” he called, eyes glinting. “Unless you want to go back and ask the nice men politely.”