Baldwin POV
The city stretched out beneath the pale morning haze, roofs stacked unevenly like tired shoulders leaning on one another. Baldwin exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him heavier than it should've. A few days. That's all it had been. A few days of asking, listening, watching faces close the moment names were spoken. And still—nothing.
He turned back toward the room.
Emma was sprawled across the bed, one leg hanging off the side, hair fanned over the thin pillow. Peaceful. Carefree in a way the world hadn't been to her in a long time. Baldwin watched her for a moment longer than necessary.
I shouldn't be dragging her through this, he thought. I should get the responsibility off my shoulder. Get her back to her brother. Where she belongs.
He moved quietly, boots in hand until he reached the door, then slipped out.
The tavern below was already awake. It smelled of cheap ale, fried dough, and damp wood—Suka's version of morning comfort. Baldwin took a seat near the wall, back to the corner, habit settling in without thought. Old instincts never really died.
A waiter approached, wiping his hands on an already-dirty cloth.
"The usual?" the man asked, recognizing him.
Baldwin nodded. "Bread. Eggs. Whatever passes for meat today."
The waiter chuckled. "You're brave."
As the man walked off, Baldwin let his gaze drift. Merchants occupied the center tables—well-dressed, rings on fingers too soft for real work. Their laughter was loud, careless, the kind that came from men who believed misfortune only happened to others.
"One bad tide," one of them was saying, slapping the table, "and suddenly everyone's an expert on losses!"
Another snorted. "Losses? You call that a loss? I had a warehouse seized last winter. Still hurts to think about it."
They laughed, cups clinking.
Baldwin tuned them out—until a name slipped through the noise.
"…ever since Edward went underground—"
His fingers stilled against the table.
"…I'm telling you," the speaker continued, voice thick with drink, "my shipments dried up overnight. Overnight! Man vanishes and suddenly everyone pretends they never worked with him."
"Worked with him?" another scoffed. "You mean used him. Don't dress it up."
The first man waved a dismissive hand. "Call it what you want. Business is business."
A third leaned in, lowering his voice just enough to pretend it was a secret. "You know why he vanished, don't you?"
That got their attention.
Baldwin didn't move. Didn't look. He listened.
"Drugs," the man said, savoring the word. "Not the street trash. The refined kind. Stuff nobles pretend doesn't exist."
A burst of laughter followed, sharp and nervous.
"Careful," someone muttered. "Walls have ears."
"Please," the first man scoffed. "Edward's gone. Gjahallhorn sniffed too close, that's all. Bad luck."
That name drew curses immediately.
"Damn dogs," one spat. "Every time they 'clean up,' honest merchants suffer."
"Honest," another laughed. "That's generous."
Their voices dropped further now, chairs scraping closer.
"I heard his business still runs," one said quietly. "Just… different hands."
"Yeah," came the reply. "Zion runs it now."
A pause.
"…her kin," the man finished. "Emma's brother."
"Shush... you know his dealing name is Opium. Man you can't just says that." One of them shushed them.
"What the secrecy the beans are spilled what point in keeping a secret it isn't like someone is listening to our rambling."
" Just shut up man."
Baldwin's jaw tightened.
So you're alive, he thought. And close. Closer than I hoped.
The waiter returned, setting the plate down. "Enjoy."
Baldwin slid a coin across without looking. His eyes flicked briefly to his wrist. Time had slipped more than he liked.
He stood, calm, unhurried, and walked to the counter.
"Send the rest upstairs," he said. "Same room."
The waiter nodded.
As Baldwin stepped outside, the noise of the tavern dulled behind him. He cast one final glance through the doorway—not at the merchants, but at the space between them. At the silence they guarded.
Edward. Drugs. A brother keeping the wheels turning.
He pulled his coat tighter and walked on.
Now I know where to dig.
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The merchant rose from his seat with a satisfied grunt, coins clinking as he adjusted the weight of his purse. Chairs scraped against the tavern floor as he nodded farewell to the others, laughter still lingering behind him. Outside, Suka greeted him with its usual chaos—vendors shouting prices, children weaving between carts, the air thick with salt from the nearby docks and the sharp scent of oil lamps already being lit though the sun hadn't fully dipped yet.
He walked without hurry.
Adwin always did.
He cut away from the main street and into a narrower passage, one that most people avoided out of instinct. The stones here were damp, moss clinging to the cracks, trash gathered in lazy piles along the walls. The noise of the city dulled, replaced by the distant drip of water and the echo of footsteps that weren't quite his own.
Figures waited ahead.
Black suits. Clean. Out of place in an alley that smelled like rot and rust.
A boy stepped forward—no more than his mid-teens, slim, sharp-eyed. His black hair was neatly combed, his posture relaxed in a way that suggested confidence rather than carelessness.
"How are you, Adwin?" the boy said, extending a gloved hand.
Adwin's face split into a wide grin as he clasped it. "Fine, sir. Fine—as fine as your goods," he laughed, squeezing a little harder than necessary. "Still smooth, still profitable. Can't complain."
"One always complains," the boy replied mildly. "That's how we stay alive."
A man beside them passed Adwin a thin tablet, its surface faintly glowing. Adwin leaned against the wall, stylus scratching as he filled in quantities and routes, muttering under his breath.
"Hells, the Gjallahorn inspections are killing us," Adwin grumbled. "Lost three shipments last month. Pure coincidence, they say. Coincidence my ass."
The boy took the tablet once it was done, eyes flicking over the details. His smile thinned.
"Adwin," he said calmly, "your enthusiasm is appreciated. But the numbers aren't."
Adwin stiffened. "What?"
"For a while," the boy continued, voice even, "supply will be… lighter. Same price. Fewer crates."
Adwin cursed under his breath. "Those damn Gjallahorn dogs again. Always poking where they don't belong." He sighed, rubbing his face. "Fine. I'll manage. I always do."
"That's why we keep doing business with you," the boy said, handing the tablet away. "Adaptability."
A soft chuckle rippled through the men in black.
Unseen, half-buried in shadow near the alley's mouth, Baldwin listened.
He didn't move. Didn't breathe louder than necessary. Years of experience peeled the words apart, laid them bare. Edward. Gone underground. The operation still alive. Passed on. And that name—Opium—hovering like a ghost behind every sentence, never spoken aloud but heavy all the same.
So that's how it is, Baldwin thought. Zion didn't just inherit the mess. He became it.
The boy suddenly tilted his head.
"…Interesting," he murmured.
Baldwin felt it then—a shift. A pressure at the base of his skull.
"It looks like we have a bug floating around," the boy said lightly, as if commenting on the weather.
Too late.
Something rough and chemical-soaked slammed over Baldwin's face. The world lurched. His hand twitched toward his coat, but strength fled his limbs in a rushing wave. Sound stretched, warped—Adwin's startled shout, boots scraping—
Darkness swallowed him.
When Baldwin came to, sensation returned in fragments. The ache in his shoulder. The smell of damp cloth. The murmur of voices overhead.
Adwin was already gone, retreating fast down the alley, fear finally catching up to him.
Two bodyguards hoisted Baldwin with professional ease, dragging him toward the boy. The teenager crouched, studying Baldwin's unconscious face with open curiosity.
"So this is him," the boy said. "The one asking about Sir Edward."
He smiled.
"Good. Saves us the trouble. The bug came running to us on his own."
He straightened, adjusting his cuffs. "Let's go."
The men moved, the alley swallowing them whole as Suka's noise rushed back in—oblivious, uncaring, alive.
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A sharp, stinging light stabbed into Baldwin's vision.
He sucked in a breath and tried to turn his head away, but the motion stopped short, his neck straining uselessly. Leather bit into his wrists. His ankles were locked down. His back pressed against something rigid—wooden, reinforced, shaped like a chair built not for comfort, but for endurance.
So that's where I am.
His eyes adjusted slowly. Too slowly. The light hung above him like a miniature sun, white and unforgiving, washing the room of shadows while leaving his thoughts exposed. Every blink sent needles through his skull.
He tested his restraints with a careful shift. No slack. Whoever tied him knew what they were doing.
Good.
A room came into focus beyond the glare. Stone walls, old and uneven, darkened by age and moisture. Iron rings were embedded into the masonry, some still bearing frayed rope ends, others stained darker in places Baldwin didn't bother guessing about. The air smelled of oil, damp wood, and something faintly metallic.
Blood, probably old.
From somewhere beyond the light, footsteps echoed.
Not boots.
Wooden soles.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Measured. Unhurried. Each step announced itself, deliberate enough to be theatrical. Baldwin kept his breathing uneven on purpose, shoulders tense, hands curling as if in panic.
Play the part.
A black silhouette crossed into the edge of the light. Then another. And another. When the first figure stepped fully forward, the glare framed him from behind, turning his face into a half-shadowed mask.
The boy.
Same age. Same calm posture. Same eyes that looked like they were already bored.
Behind him stood two men in black suits, arms folded, expressions flat. Professionals. Not thugs.
"Now," the boy said, his voice carrying easily in the stone room, "let the interrogation begin."
Baldwin let his head sag forward a little, jaw tightening as if bracing himself.
Inside, his mind was steady.
So this is the heart of it, he thought. Not a warehouse. Not a ship. Underground, old stone, soundproofed by ignorance and rot. Smart.
A faint smile threatened to surface. He crushed it before it could show.
The plan worked.
They took the bait exactly as expected. No tail, no quiet murder in an alley, no knife between the ribs. They wanted answers, which meant leverage. Which meant time.
And time was all Baldwin ever needed.
He counted the exits by sound alone. Not many. He felt the chair—bolted, but old. The straps were tight, but rushed. Someone confident always rushed the small things.
Good.
The boy stepped closer, leaning down just enough for Baldwin to smell faint soap and ink.
"Let's start simple," the boy said. "Who sent you?"
Baldwin swallowed, lifting his head just enough to squint into the light.
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