The air in the lower tunnel district was thick with ash and mildew, the scent of rot clinging to the stone walls like a second skin. Lantern light bled weakly through grime-streaked glass, illuminating flickering shadows that twisted with every movement. The alleys were mostly quiet now—too quiet.

That’s what tipped Levi off first.

“No lookouts,” he muttered under his breath, crouched behind a broken column with Furlan beside him. “No one to sweep the upper deck. Either someone’s cocky, or they’re expecting company.”

Furlan adjusted the strap on his satchel, fingers twitching. “We’ve hit this trade route twice already. Could be a trap. Or someone else’s job.”

Levi didn’t respond right away. His gaze was locked on the crumbling warehouse ahead, its rusted gate pulled halfway open like a broken jaw. Inside, the rhythmic clang of crates being shifted echoed faintly. The merchandise—contraband spices, maybe weapons—was supposed to move through this tunnel under the radar. A fat prize if they could get to it first.

But something was off.

He gestured sharply with two fingers. Furlan nodded and peeled off into the shadows, nimble as a rat, his boots silent on the damp stone. Levi waited a beat, then moved.

He slipped between the walls like smoke, sticking to the darkest edges of the corridor. No guards. No dogs. Just crates and broken lanterns and the sound of someone—singular—working inside. Not the usual grunts hired for muscle.

He approached the half-open gate and pressed his back to the frame, drawing one of his hooked blades with a whisper of steel. Then, he peeked inside.

Not a soul in sight at first. Just rows of stacked wooden crates and tattered tarps. The scent of salt and leather was thick—smuggled goods, probably stolen.

Then he saw it.

A figure crouched beside one of the crates, prying it open with a crowbar. They were quick, efficient, but silent—too practiced to be just another lackey. Whoever it was, they weren’t working for the same syndicate Levi had planned to rob tonight.

Which made them a problem.

He moved fast. One step inside, two strides, blade flashing—he caught the thief by the collar and slammed them against the crate before they could turn. A sharp gasp burst from their lips.

Levi’s blade pressed cold against their throat. “Not a good place to be alone, is it?”

The figure didn’t flinch. Didn’t fight. Their eyes—sharp, strangely familiar—locked onto his.

He narrowed his own. The light was poor, but… something stirred.

Footsteps approached. Furlan reappeared, breathless. “No one else outside. Just this one.” He paused when he saw Levi’s posture. “You get ’em?”

“Yeah,” Levi muttered. But his tone had shifted—just slightly.

He stared harder now, blade unmoving. The person in front of him, cloaked in patchwork rags and dirt-smeared from head to toe, was utterly still. There was a bruise blooming along their cheekbone, a half-healed cut on their jaw, and those eyes—

“…You,” Levi said.

Furlan raised a brow. “You know them?”

Levi didn’t answer. His grip loosened, and the blade lowered by a fraction.

A memory surfaced, fast and sharp. A child’s face beneath a cracked ceiling. Dirty hands sharing stolen bread. A voice that never rose above a whisper. A small shadow curled beside his mother’s cot while she coughed herself to death.

That had been years ago. Before Kenny. Before he learned to kill.

He stared at {{user}} now, fully seeing them. Older, hardened, but unmistakable.

“You’re still alive,” Levi said quietly.

Furlan glanced between them, clearly confused. “You know each other?”

Levi didn’t respond to him either. His eyes never left {{user}}. His blade finally left their throat, but his hand stayed firm on their collar. “What the hell are you doing on my job?” he asked. “Working for Darios? Lask? Or did you think you could take the whole haul yourself?”