The town had no name worth remembering. Grey stone, grey sky, grey faces moving through narrow streets that smelled of fish oil and coal smoke. The masked man walked among them—tall, draped in a dark traveler's cloak that hid everything but the porcelain covering his face. White ceramic carved into a theatrical frown, one eye socket empty, the other marked in black. No features visible beneath.
No one looked at him twice. Towns like this learned not to notice strangers.
He turned down an alley between two warehouses. Followed it to a dead end where a shed leaned against crumbling brick—wood so weathered it had gone silver, door hanging loose on rusted hinges.
The masked man pushed it open.
Inside: rotting crates, broken tools, decades of abandonment. He crossed to the back corner where floorboards sagged under his weight. Knelt. His gloved fingers traced a pattern across the wood grain—three circles, a line, two more circles. The movements precise, deliberate.
His Source flickered. A specific frequency, carefully shaped.
The air rippled.
The shed vanished.
—
Lamplight. Thick carpet under his boots. The smell of tobacco and expensive liquor and desperation given financial form.
The gambling den stretched before him—all dark wood panels and velvet curtains, tables scattered across the main floor where men and women bent over cards and dice and wheels. Voices layered over each other: curses, laughter, the clink of coins and scrape of chips. Guards stood at intervals along the walls, watching everything, hands never far from weapons.
The noise dropped as he entered.
Not silence. Just a collective pause—conversations stumbling, dice rolls interrupted, someone's glass frozen halfway to their lips. Eyes found the porcelain mask. Found the frown cut into ceramic. Found the single black eye that saw everything and gave nothing back.
Then movement resumed. Carefully. The den remembered how to breathe.
The masked man crossed the floor without hurry. His boots made no sound on the carpet. He moved past tables where fortunes changed hands, past alcoves where darker transactions happened in shadow, toward the back stairs that led to private rooms.
Up. Second floor. Down a hallway lit by oil lamps that cast more shadow than light.
The last door stood open.
Inside, a man sat behind a desk that groaned under ledgers and scattered papers. Short—barely five feet when standing. Round in a way that spoke of excess, not comfort. His skin had a greasy sheen under the lamplight. Small eyes, calculating and quick, set too close together. Jeweled rings covered thick fingers that worked an abacus with surprising speed.
He looked up as the masked man entered. His face tightened for just a moment—something between irritation and carefully suppressed fear.
"You're early." His voice was high, nasal. Clipped.
The masked man closed the door. Crossed to the chair opposite the desk and settled into it with a grace that felt wrong for his frame. When he spoke, his voice lilted—musical, almost singing. Playful.
"Am I? Time moves strangely when work goes well." He tilted his head, the porcelain mask catching lamplight. "And the work has gone very well, hasn't it?"
The short man's fingers stilled on the abacus. "Depends on your definition."
"Oh, come now." The masked man leaned back. His hands folded in his lap, relaxed. "Certain arrangements were made. Certain people were positioned. Certain dominoes fell exactly as predicted." The playful rhythm continued, each word landing with careful emphasis. "You coordinated. You delivered. You earned."
"The payment—"
"Will be processed." The musical tone didn't waver. "Three thousand Marks, as agreed. Plus the bonus for speed." His head tilted the other way. "You did move quickly. Impressive, really. I expected delays."
The short man's jaw worked. His fingers found the abacus again, moving beads without counting. "The... complications were managed."
"They were, they were." The masked man's voice rose slightly, pleased. "Loose threads tied off. Witnesses handled. The whole affair wrapped up with a bow." He paused. "Though I heard there were some unexpected variables. Nothing that changed the outcome, but still. Variables."
"Nothing I couldn't manage."
"Of course not! That's why we work together, isn't it?" The playful rhythm continued. "You manage the messy details. I provide the vision. Together we make miracles happen."
The short man's face twitched. "Is that what you'd call it?"
"What else would I call arrangements that benefit everyone involved?" The masked man spread his hands. "People got what they wanted. Contracts were fulfilled. Money changed hands. That's just business."
Silence stretched. The short man's fingers had stopped moving entirely now. He stared at the porcelain mask, at the empty eye socket and the black-marked eye beneath it.
"You need something else." Not a question.
"Perceptive!" The musical voice brightened. "Yes, actually. There are more arrangements being made. More pieces moving into position. I'll need your services again soon."
"How soon?"
"A year. Maybe two." The masked man's posture remained relaxed. "Plenty of time to prepare. Plenty of time to position the right people in the right places." He paused. "You'll be compensated appropriately, of course. Generously, even."
The short man's throat worked. He swallowed something that looked like it hurt going down. "And if I'm... occupied with other contracts?"
"Then you'll un-occupy yourself." The playful tone didn't change, but something underneath it went cold. Just for a moment. "Our arrangement is exclusive when I need it to be. You remember that, don't you... Piggy?"
The short man's face flushed. His fingers dug into the armrests of his chair. For three seconds he sat there, jaw clenched, small eyes burning with impotent rage.
Then it smoothed away. His expression went carefully blank. Professional.
"Of course," he said quietly. "I remember."
"Wonderful!" The masked man stood. "I knew we'd understand each other."
—
The card table sat in an alcove near the den's center—round, felt-topped, ringed by six players. Smoke hung thick overhead. Chips stacked in uneven towers. Five men and one woman, all dressed well enough to suggest money but not so well as to suggest taste.
The tanned man dominated the space without trying. Broad shoulders, heavy muscle, sun-darkened skin that spoke of southern coasts or desert margins. His shirt hung open at the collar, sleeves rolled to expose forearms marked with old scars. Black hair pulled back from a face that was handsome in the way a wolf is handsome—all sharp edges and predatory confidence.
A woman draped across his shoulders, young and painted, her dress cut low enough to distract. She held a wine glass in one hand, the other trailing fingers across the tanned man's chest. Smiling. Always smiling.
The tanned man laid his cards down with casual precision. "Full tower. Fire over water."
Groans circled the table. One player threw his cards down in disgust. Another just shook his head and pushed his chips forward.
The tanned man grinned. Leaned back. His hand came down hard on the table—celebratory, loud.
The woman startled. The wine glass tipped. Red liquid splashed across felt and cards and the tanned man's forearm.
Her smile vanished.
"I—I'm so sorry, I didn't—" She straightened, pulling away, hands already reaching for a cloth that wasn't there. "I'll clean it, I'll—"
The tanned man's other hand rose. Lazy. Casual. His fingers traced a small circle in the air.
The atmosphere tightened. Pressure building in the space of a heartbeat.
A line of compressed air flashed across the alcove—visible distortion, like heat shimmer given edge. Razor-thin. Surgical.
The crack rang out sharp and final.
The woman's head separated from her shoulders. Clean. No ragged edges. It tilted, fell, landed in her lap with a wet sound. Her body sat upright for two full seconds, hands still raised, before it slumped sideways out of the chair.
Blood spread across the felt in a slow, creeping pool.
The players froze.
The tanned man wiped wine from his forearm with his sleeve. Looked at the mess. Looked at the other players.
"Clumsy," he said.
Five seconds passed. Ten.
One player cleared his throat. Gathered the cards. Started shuffling.
Another pushed the dead woman's chips toward the tanned man. "Your pot."
Play resumed.
—
The masked man stood by the door of the private room. The short man—Piggy—hadn't moved from behind his desk. Still clutching his armrests. Still wearing that careful blank expression.
The playful rhythm was gone from the masked man's voice when he spoke again.
The words came out low. Flat. Cold as winter stone.
"I have a lot riding on you." Each syllable precise. Final. "More than you understand. More than I'm willing to risk on incompetence or misplaced loyalty." He didn't move, but the air in the room felt heavier. "The arrangements we discussed—the ones coming in a year or two—they need to go perfectly. No variables. No complications. No surprises."
Piggy's knuckles had gone white on the armrests.
"Everything you've built here." The masked man's voice dropped lower. "This den. Your network. Your reputation. Your life." He paused. "All of it exists because I allow it to exist. Remember that when the time comes. Remember who holds the threads."
Silence.
"Do we understand each other?"
Piggy's voice came out hoarse. Small. "Yes."
"Good."
The masked man turned. Opened the door. Stepped into the hallway.
Behind him, in the private room, Piggy sat frozen behind his desk. Staring at nothing. Breathing like a man who'd just avoided drowning.
The door closed with a soft click.