The bell above the door gave a reluctant jingle.
Hans looked up from behind the front desk, squinting past the dust and lamplight. A figure stepped through the threshold, shoulders heavy with rain. The coat dripped quietly, but the man didn't bother shaking it off.
Hood drawn low. Face covered in shadows. Hans caught a flicker beneath—bare skin, maybe young.
He didn't need to see more. The type was familiar.
Carried himself like someone used to being followed. Or hunted.
Hans reached for the brass key with one gnarled hand, the other gripping his crutch. "Top floor. Last door on the right."
No questions asked.
A small pouch of silver clinked onto the counter. Hans didn't count it. Just palmed it and nodded, pretending not to notice the hilt peeking under the stranger's coat.
***
Lin hummed as she balanced the tray, its contents clattering with her every step. Stew, bread, water—simple. But she'd added something extra. An apple. Bright red. She'd saved it from breakfast.
Her father's voice echoed behind her:
"No talking to the guests."
She ignored it.
The hallway creaked as she walked, long braid bouncing behind her. Books always said people liked confidence. "First impressions," she recited quietly to herself, "can bloom into friendships."
She nudged the door open with her foot.
The room was dim, but she saw him—standing by the window, back straight. Hood still on..
Only one thing visible beneath the folds of his hood: a single green eye, sharp and unreadable, staring into the gray outside. Brown hair brushed down from beneath his hood with black outlines, catching the soft glow from the rainy light.
He didn't turn.
Lin stepped in anyway.
With a twirl she'd practiced in the mirror, she spun once and held the tray high. "My name's Lin!" she beamed.
She set the tray down on the desk, gently placing the apple beside the bowl. The eye didn't flicker. Didn't blink.
Outside the window, the rain tapped the glass, and whatever they said next was only for the walls to hear.
***
The crash came fast.
The front door slammed open so hard it cracked the frame. Hans barely reached his crutches before a heavy boot kicked one away.
Three of them. Broad, grinning. Reeking of coin and blood.
The leader, massive and scarred, grabbed Hans by the collar and lifted him off the ground with one arm.
"We're here for the Gravedigger," he growled. "And I know he's here."
Hans winced. "No one here but rats."
A fist hit him in the face. He didn't scream—just sagged, limp in the man's grip.
Another blow cocked back.
But it never landed.
A hand stopped it mid-air. Clean fingers. Calloused palm. A simple silver ring on the ring finger.
The big man paused. Then grinned wide, eyes flashing.
The first bounty hunter lunged, blade drawn.
The hooded man didn't flinch. Instead, he slid the shovel from his back—wooden, smooth, worn from years of touch. An ordinary tool, but it moved in his hands like a blade.
The shovel cracked the attacker's wrist, then swept under his legs. The man hit the ground, breath stolen.
The second one rushed in with daggers, slashing fast. The hooded man stepped aside, dragging the shovel across the floor.
Vines erupted from between the floorboards—thin, angry tendrils snatching at ankles and arms. One wrapped around the man's thigh, another up his neck. The daggers clattered away.
The third hesitated. One moment too long.
The shovel spun in a wide arc, the wooden edge catching him across the jaw. He crumpled with a thud.
The big man backed away, fists still raised, but his eyes betrayed him now—narrowed, uncertain.
The hooded man stepped forward.
Still silent and unreadable.
The vines curled and shifted behind him, as if alive.
The big man turned and ran, his voice cracking as he barked retreat to the others.
Lin was crouched by her father, holding a cloth to his bloody lip. She looked up as the stranger stood in the wreckage, breathing slow and steady.
No words passed. But Lin smiled.
She had made a friend.