Warehouse 14 was a skeletal monument to Backlund's industrial rot. Situated on the edge of the Tussock River, its timber was blackened by decades of coal soot and salt, and its floorboards were a treacherous puzzle of dry rot and hidden drops. At midnight, the fog didn't just surround the building; it entered through the shattered windows, coiling around the rusted iron pillars like a living thing.
Victor stood in the absolute darkness of the upper mezzanine, his grey greatcoat blending perfectly into the shadows. He had arrived two hours early—not to wait, but to prepare. A Hunter who enters an unfamiliar arena without mapping its exits is merely a victim with a head start.
The first rule of the hunt: the terrain is either your greatest ally or your swiftest executioner, Victor thought, his breathing slow and rhythmic.
He had spent the last two hours moving silently through the structure. He had weakened a specific section of the railing near the back stairs and cleared a path through the debris that only he knew. He wasn't a Beyonder with flash-powder or mystical traps; he was a scavenger with a piece of charcoal and a keen eye for structural instability.
Beneath his coat, the bronze medal remained cold, a heavy reminder of the heritage he was currently using to navigate the gutter.
A faint, rhythmic splashing echoed from the river-side entrance. Victor's ears, sensitized by the Hunter potion, caught the discordant note immediately. It wasn't the sound of a boat; it was the sound of heavy boots trying—and failing—to be silent in the mud.
The police informant from the bench, Victor identified. He brought friends. Amateurs.
He didn't move. He watched as three figures slipped through the large loading doors. One was the man in the dark cloak he had spotted earlier; the other two were uniformed constables, their brass buttons dulled with grease to prevent reflections. They moved with a clumsy caution, their lanterns shuttered to thin slivers of light.
"He said the drop was at midnight," the informant whispered, his voice trembling slightly in the cavernous space.
"Quiet," one of the constables hissed. "If there's a runner, he'll have a lookout."
Victor allowed a thin, cold smile to touch his lips. He was the lookout, and he was currently ten feet above their heads, invisible in the gloom. He didn't need to fight them. He just needed to ensure the "package" was secured and the police were led elsewhere.
A low whistle sounded from the river. The runner had arrived.
A small, flat-bottomed boat drifted toward the warehouse's internal dock. A man in a sailor's cap hopped onto the rotted planks, clutching a small, iron-bound chest. He looked around nervously, his hand resting on the hilt of a heavy knife.
The police tightened their formation, preparing to spring the trap. They were waiting for the exchange—waiting for Victor to appear.
Victor didn't appear. Instead, he picked up a heavy, rusted gear he had found earlier and dropped it onto a pile of loose iron pipes at the far opposite end of the warehouse.
CRASH.
The sound was explosive in the silent hall.
"POLICE! DON'T MOVE!" the informant shouted, his nerves snapping as he bolted toward the sound of the crash, followed instinctively by the two constables.
The runner didn't hesitate. He turned to flee back to his boat, but Victor was already there. He hadn't jumped; he had descended a silent rope he'd secured earlier, landing softly in the mud just behind the sailor.
"Egmont sent me," Victor whispered, his voice a chilling, authoritative rasp that paralyzed the runner. "Give me the chest and take the boat through the East Pumping channel. The police are occupied. Go. Now."
The runner looked at the tall, gaunt figure in the grey greatcoat. He didn't see a beggar; he saw a professional. He thrust the chest into Victor's hands and shoved off, the boat disappearing into the fog within seconds.
"THERE! BY THE DOCK!" one of the constables yelled, spotting the movement.
Victor didn't run for the exit. He ran for the center of the warehouse, leaden chest tucked under his arm. He needed them to follow him—away from the river, away from the runner, and into the "architecture" he had prepared.
He sprinted toward the back stairs, his boots hitting the floorboards with deliberate weight. The police were gaining, their lanterns swinging wildly.
"Stop! In the name of the Queen!"
Victor reached the mezzanine stairs and leaped upward, his hands catching the weakened railing. As he swung himself over, he kicked the support beam he had pre-cut.
The stairs collapsed with a groan of splintering wood, leaving the constables stranded on the ground floor, staring up at the gap.
"He's a ghost!" the informant cried out, his voice cracking with superstitious dread.
Victor didn't wait to hear more. He vanished through a high window he had unlatched earlier, dropping onto a pile of damp grain sacks in the alleyway. He was breathing hard, his muscles burning, but the Hunter potion was singing in his veins.
He hadn't fought. He hadn't provoked. He had simply manipulated the greed and fear of his "prey" to achieve a perfect extraction.
A key moment, Victor realized, as he walked calmly through the fog of Cherwood, the chest heavy and cold against his side. A Hunter doesn't need to be stronger than the bear if he knows how to make the bear chase its own tail.
He returned to the clock shop through the back door. Egmont was waiting in the cellar, a single candle illuminating his frantic face.
Victor placed the iron-bound chest on the workbench. His grey greatcoat was splattered with mud, and his face was gaunt, but his eyes were like cold blue diamonds.
"The police are currently searching a pile of rotted wood at Warehouse 14," Victor said. "The runner is safe. Here is your package."
Egmont stared at the chest, then at Victor. He reached into his pocket and pulled out five silver soli—the most money Victor had ever seen in this world.
"You're more than a scavenger, boy," Egmont muttered, his voice shaking. "You're a demon."
"I'm a Hunter, Mr. Egmont," Victor corrected him, his voice flat. "And I'm hungry."
He climbed the stairs to his attic, the silver coins clinking in his pocket. He sat by the window, watching the first light of dawn struggle to break through the Backlund smog. He felt the bronze medal in his pocket.
For the first time, it didn't just feel heavy. It felt... expectant.
He wasn't a hero. He was a man who had traded his noble soul for the logic of the gutter, and he was beginning to like the trade.