The port fog was as thick as broth from an old bone, it obscured the dirty streets, clung to clothing, and mingled with the smell of cheap rum and rotting fish. Lucius walked along the cobblestones, his figure in a perfectly black suit seeming like a ghost cutting through the veil, his green eyes with a predatory squint sliding over the grimy walls.

Everywhere, covering announcements for sailor recruitment and wanted posters for petty thieves, were fresh posters, still smelling of printer's ink - his own face stared back at him from every post, with loud headlines beneath, like "WANTED. LUCIUS. CHEF AND DUELIST. DANGEROUS. BOUNTY ON HIS HEAD. DEAD OR ALIVE."

Lucius stopped at one such post and tore off one of the posters. The corner of his mouth twitched in a skeptical smirk.

"They didn't skimp on the paper." — he whispered skeptically, crumpling the paper and throwing it away.

At that moment, the fog seemed to stir, and shadows detached from the walls. Three figures in the blue uniforms of the Marine Guard, with sabers, emerged from an alley, and their every movement was threatening.

— "Lucius! Surrender! By order of His Majesty. We won't rest until we wipe that mocking smirk off your face. We end this here and now."

Instead of answering, Lucius's hand darted to the red handkerchief on his belt, as if wiping away invisible dirt, and then he sharply pushed off the ground, not towards cover, but upwards, onto the sloped tiled roof of the nearest tavern—not because he was scared, but to avoid hitting any bystanders.

Lucius leaped from ledge to ledge, moving backward, just as he used to lure opponents in duels. The whistle of blades and the guards' shouts were music to Lucius, but then a new silhouette emerged from the fog. It was John - a broad-shouldered commander in armor that smelled of steel and horse sweat. In his hands was not a blade, but a massive two-handed hammer.

"Enough running, chef!" — John roared.

Lucius tried to dodge, but the captain was surprisingly fast. The hammer, describing a short arc, came down on him with a crushing blow to the chest, forcing the air from Lucius's lungs with a wheeze. He felt his ribs crack and was thrown back, his whole body slamming into the stone statue of a weeping angel in the square. The world swam before Lucius's eyes as John loomed over him, raising the hammer for the final blow.

— "You should have agreed to join us back then. Farewell, legend." — John growled with hatred.

At the last moment, consciousness returned to Lucius, and he lunged sideways just before the hammer crashed down on the angel statue, shattering its head to dust. Getting to his feet, Lucius felt a sharp pain in his chest, but his mind was already working with its usual cold speed, while the smell of ozone hit his nostrils and adrenaline surged in his veins.

The second part of the "dance" began. Dodges, parries with his main knife, precise strikes at weak points in the armor. Lucius wasn't trying to kill John; he was wearing him down, looking for a breach to escape, and he found it. Deflecting the hammer to the side, Lucius tumbled down the embankment and landed on the deck of a small, battered schooner moored at the very edge of the dock.

"Perfect." — Lucius thought and, with one motion, severed the rope, pushing off with a pole.

The current and the evening breeze caught the boat, carrying it out to the open sea, towards the fog and freedom. Only when the port lights dissolved in the haze did the pain wash over Lucius in a wave again. He descended into the cramped cabin to bandage his wounds and find at least a sip of fresh water, but in the darkness, he noticed a sleeping figure in a hammock. Realization dawned on Lucius - he was not alone.

His black suit was covered in dust, a dark stain was spreading on his shirt near his ribs, in one hand he clutched his chef's knife, still ready for a fight, looking at the sleeping figure skeptically.

— "Wake up. I sort of borrowed your vessel, but in return, I can be your chef, if you help me hide."