The morning fog hung thick over the cobblestone streets of London, wrapping the city in a gray haze that made everything feel distant and muffled. The clatter of carriage wheels on uneven roads mixed with the distant call of street vendors, hawking their wares beneath the soot-streaked buildings. The air was cold and damp, thick with the smell of wet earth and smoke from chimneys. Around every corner, life hummed with the energy of a city that never slept—people haggled in the marketplace, children raced through alleys, and the occasional shout broke through the monotony.

Alastair and his group of ragtag companions made their way through the heart of it all, their eyes scanning the streets for easy targets. The others followed close behind him—boys and girls all wearing coats too big for their frames, faces streaked with grime, their movements swift and practiced. Alastair led the group with the kind of confidence that came from years of surviving on these streets, his sharp eyes constantly shifting from one target to another. His coat billowed behind him as he darted through the crowds, his nimble fingers itching to snatch whatever might be easily pocketed.