The hunger of a Sequence 9 Hunter was unlike anything Victor had ever experienced in his past life. It wasn't just a growling stomach; it was a metabolic furnace that demanded fuel to maintain his heightened reflexes and the accelerated healing of his joints. Despite Mr. Egmont's black bread, Victor felt his body becoming a lean, dangerous machine, stripped of all aristocratic soft edges.
He spent his nights in the attic, staring at the soot-stained rafters, listening to the muffled ticking of the clocks below. By day, he was a ghost in a leather apron, polishing the brass and hauling coal. But between the chores, Victor began his real education: the observation of the "cracks" in Cherwood's middle-class facade.
On a Tuesday evening, just as the yellow fog began to thicken like curdled milk outside the shop windows, the bell chimed. A man entered—not a regular customer. He wore a heavy ulster coat that was far too warm for the season, and he walked with a slight limp that Victor recognized immediately as a fake. It was a rhythmic, calculated hitch designed to hide his true stride.
"Egmont," the man grunted, leaning over the counter. "The 'package' from the docks. Is it ready?"
Mr. Egmont didn't look up from a disassembled pocket watch. "The boy hauled it to the cellar an hour ago. Victor! Bring up the heavy crate from the back corner. The one marked with the anchor."
Victor stood up from his polishing stool. His blue eyes—sharp as frozen glass—briefly met the man's gaze. The man flinched, just for a heartbeat, as if he had looked into the eyes of a wolf disguised as a servant. Victor simply bowed his head and descended into the cellar.
The crate was small but remarkably heavy. As Victor hoisted it onto his shoulder, a faint, metallic smell leaked from the seams—not the smell of brass or iron, but something sharper, like ozone and old blood. He didn't open it. He knew better. But as he climbed the stairs, he realized this was the "opening" he had been looking for.
After the man left with the crate, Victor didn't return to the cellar. He stood by the workbench, his arms folded across his coarse apron.
"That wasn't a clock, Mr. Egmont," Victor said, his voice a low, steady baritone.
Egmont sighed, finally putting down his loupe. "I told you, boy. Don't hear what isn't meant for your ears. That man is a runner for the Iron and Blood Cross. They don't like witnesses."
"I'm not a witness. I'm a partner," Victor countered, his voice carrying the calm authority of a man who had already analyzed the risks. "You're acting as a drop-point for smuggled Beyonder materials. Or at least, the raw components for them. The Nighthawks would call it heresy; the Mandated Punishers would call it a reason for a hanging. I call it a business opportunity."
Egmont turned to him, his aged face hardening. "You think you can threaten me, you little scavenger?"
"I'm not threatening you. I'm negotiating," Victor said, stepping into the light of the gas lamp. His gaunt, sharp features—the undeniable Anakin visual—were cast in harsh shadows. "The runner's limp is fake. He's being followed. There was a man across the street in a dark cloak who didn't move for twenty minutes while that runner was inside. If you keep using the front door for these deliveries, the 'Nails' or the 'Church' will shut you down within a month."
Egmont froze. "Followed? You're sure?"
"I tracked the man's reflection in the display glass," Victor said. "If you want to keep this shop—and your head—you need a scout. Someone who can read the street before the runner arrives. Someone who can spot the 'tracks' of the law before they reach your doorstep."
Victor didn't ask for money. He knew Egmont wouldn't give it.
"In exchange for my 'scouting'," Victor continued, "I want two things. First, a better coat. This apron is useless against the winter. Second... I want access to the rumors. When people like that runner come in, I want to know who they are and what they are looking for."
Egmont stared at him, the ticking of the clocks filling the silence. He saw the scavenger who had crawled out of the East Borough sludge, but he also saw a predator that was too useful to kill and too smart to ignore.
"The attic closet," Egmont finally muttered, turning back to his work. "There's an old greatcoat. Stiff wool, grey. It was my brother's. Take it. And as for the rumors... keep your ears open, but keep your mouth shut, or I'll put a bullet in you myself."
Victor nodded. He had successfully used his elocution to transform himself from a mere coal-hauler into an essential part of a dangerous operation. He was no longer just surviving; he was positioning himself.
He went to the attic and found the coat. It was heavy, smelling of mothballs and history, but it was warm. It was a "Hunter's" coat. He put it on, feeling the weight of the wool settle on his shoulders. He reached into the inner pocket and felt the bronze medal.
He sat by the attic window, watching the yellow fog swirl around the streetlamps. He thought about the man in the dark cloak across the street. He realized that the world of Beyonders was much closer than he had imagined, hiding behind the rhythmic ticking of a clock shop.
He hadn't touched the Supernatural. But he had learned the most important lesson of the Hunt: Before you can trap the beast, you must become the master of the forest.
He lay down on the floor, the heavy grey coat covering him like a shroud. He closed his eyes, his mind already beginning to "track" the invisible threads of the Backlund underworld.