Ivan stepped out of the car and surveyed his surroundings, taking a deep breath before plunging into a narrow, shadowed alley that wound between the buildings. The cobblestone path underfoot was uneven, the walls around him damp and covered in ivy, lending an air of secrecy as he made his way to the back of a modest courtyard. He paused at an unmarked wooden door, gave a quick look over his shoulder, and then pushed it open, slipping quietly inside.
The room he entered was dim and cluttered with crates, boxes, and the unmistakable scent of spices and raw meat. This was the storage room for Freddy's Shop. To get to the restaurant itself, he had to pass through another door, a sturdy, iron-bolted thing that had seen years of use.
As he pushed it open, a soft chime echoed from above; a bell that rang twice in a distinct "ding-dong-dong," announcing his presence. Inside, amidst the worn wooden tables and faint haze of cigarette smoke, stood Freddy, wiping his hands on a stained apron. At the sound of the bell, he turned, squinting through his glasses at the man standing in the doorway. For a moment, his expression was blank as he registered the neatly dressed figure. Then recognition dawned, and his eyes widened slightly.
"Ivan!" he exclaimed, still a little taken aback. "Well, aren't you a sight. If you'd shown up two hours ago, though, you'd have walked right into a trap."
Ivan's jaw tightened. "I heard from Jackie that the gang was around. They're looking for me, aren't they?"
Freddy gave a slow nod, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Seems that way. Unless there's another wizard named Ivan around here. Not sure if they're here to recruit you or to... well, to end things."
Ivan's gaze hardened. "Doesn't make much difference to me. I'm not boarding their ship, and I'm certainly not surrendering. If they come for me while I'm still here in Bridgewick, then I'll fight. Simple as that."
Freddy raised an eyebrow, his face a mix of admiration and worry. "You really plan to confront them head-on?"
Ivan's lips twisted into a smirk. "Just enough to let them know I'm no easy prey. A few scars should get that message across. Do you know anything about the people tracking me?"
With a practiced motion, Freddy lifted his cigarette, taking a drag and exhaling a perfect ring of smoke that floated lazily upward. "Yeah, I know the types they sent. The ones who visited my shop were Ryan Owens and Hank Henshaw. Ryan's a makeup artist. Not the combat type, but he's got two sorcery skills—'makeup' to alter his or others' appearances and 'body management' to siphon fat from others. But he needs close contact to pull that off. Just watch your back around him; he's sneaky."
Ivan nodded, absorbing the details. "And Henshaw?"
Freddy grimaced. "Henshaw's more of a problem. An interrogator. His skill is... unnerving. His words have power. When he speaks, his voice can compel people to answer, like it's snaking right into your head. The louder he shouts, the stronger the compulsion. They say he's dangerous, even among D-level wizard."
Ivan frowned. "Noted. Anyone else I should watch out for?"
"Yes," Freddy replied, voice dropping to a whisper. "Their superior, one of the four lieutenants of the Bridgewick Gang. We don't know much, but we do know his type; beastly, with a [Honey Badger] trait. Mean as they come, and they say he's nearly impossible to shake once he's got a scent."
Ivan filed away each detail carefully. He then reached into his bag, feigning nonchalance, though his movements were deliberate. As he pretended to open a suitcase, his hand found a small, weighty object, a modest iron urn with the name "Malor" etched onto its side. He held it out to Freddy.
"Here," Ivan said softly. "I need you to take this."
Freddy's eyebrows shot up as he took the urn, turning it over to see the name engraved on the metal. He looked up at Ivan in surprise. "Malor… I thought you'd thrown his body into the river to feed the crocodiles."
Ivan's face was unreadable as he replied. "When he was alive, we were enemies, one of us had to die, and that was inevitable. But now that he's gone, there's no reason to keep holding onto that grudge. I couldn't keep the body, but his ashes… it's a way to close things out. Two years of working alongside him, for better or worse. Figured it was right to send him back to his family."
Freddy's expression softened as he cradled the urn in his hands, nodding slowly. "I'll make the arrangements. He's from Ukraine, if I remember right. I'll find his people."
Ivan nodded. "Thank you."
Freddy placed the urn carefully on the table, then sank onto a creaky wooden stool, gazing at Ivan with an emotion he rarely showed. A hint of respect, maybe even a touch of sadness.
He took a long drag on his cigarette, exhaled, and murmured, "You know, Ivan, if you ever die out there, I'll come for you. I'll bring you back and see you properly put to rest."
The words hung in the air, somber and sincere, carrying a weight that spoke of old loyalties and the unspoken bond between them. Ivan met his eyes, offering a faint smile, though both men knew that, in their line of work, promises like that were often made, but seldom kept.
Ivan gave a slight shake of his head, pushing aside the tension in the air. "Freddy," he began, steering the conversation down a gentler path, "have you ever thought about going back to Seris?"
Freddy looked at him curiously, not quite following. Ivan pressed on, "Things have settled down there, haven't they? With the merchant government in charge, it's more stable than it ever was under an emperor. You'd be appreciated there, you know. With your skills, you could be head chef somewhere respectable, maybe even live peacefully for another twenty years."
Freddy's hand trembled slightly, causing a few ashes to fall from the tip of his cigarette. He seemed to stare at them, lost in thought, as Ivan continued, his voice softening, "Bridgewick isn't a place you stay forever, Freddy. It's dangerous here. As you get older, you'll lose your value to the gangs, and you know what that means. Right now, they're focused on me. This could be your best chance to slip out while their eyes are elsewhere."
Freddy took a long, deliberate drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs before exhaling slowly. His gaze drifted, and his voice, when it came, was heavy. "I had a family, you know. Two sons, a daughter, and they were all close. A son-in-law, a daughter-in-law. All of them, good people, good to me." He stopped, his eyes distant. "But then… the army's artillery, it tore through our home. My eldest… he was gone in pieces. My daughter didn't make it either."
Ivan listened, saying nothing, sensing there was more.
"Only one son survived," Freddy continued, voice soft and bitter. "People said he was drafted, then ran off to America. But no word from him. I don't even know if he's alive. These are just stories, fairy tales, told to ease an old man's heart."
Ivan swallowed, feeling the weight of Freddy's sorrow and the futility that kept him bound to Bridgewick. "If that's true, Freddy, then it's unforgivable," Ivan said quietly.
Freddy gave him a wry smile. "You don't need to worry about me, Ivan. Just look after yourself."
The two men sat in the smoky silence of the restaurant, the tick-tick of an old wall clock filling the spaces left by unsaid words. Ivan finally stood, picking up his suitcase. "I should get going," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Hold on," Freddy called, shifting to his feet with a grunt and making his way over to the counter. He crouched down, fishing around until he pulled out a small, walnut-colored box. Dusting it off, he brought it over to Ivan and carefully set it down.
Ivan raised an eyebrow, watching as Freddy opened the box to reveal a sleek, black revolver nestled next to a box of ammunition; 24 rounds. The handle was polished, the metal gleaming under the dim light.
Freddy placed a cigarette between his lips. "This here is a Webley revolver. Some guy from Hampton gave it to me years back. Never had much use for it myself, but I figure it might serve you better."
Ivan picked it up, feeling the weight in his hand, the solidness of it. He was genuinely surprised Freddy had something like this tucked away. "It's… free, right?" he asked, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Of course." Freddy chuckled, amusement flickering in his eyes.
"Well then, I'll take it." Ivan clicked open the chamber, sliding a few bullets in to get a feel for the gun. It was heavier than he expected, and although he'd done some target practice in the past, he wasn't exactly confident in his aim. Still, it would be useful.
After tucking the revolver away, he turned to Freddy, a trace of a smile on his face. "Thanks. Really." He hesitated. "I should go. The gang isn't going to wait around."
Freddy gave a slow nod. "Take care." Then he added, almost as an afterthought, "Oh, there's one more thing."
Ivan paused. "What's that?"
With a wry grin, Freddy pointed to the magazine tucked under Ivan's arm. "Try to watch less of that… material. Not good for you."
Ivan glanced down, realizing with embarrassment that he'd been carrying around a copy of "Playboy," a magazine he'd picked up on a whim. His cheeks flushed, and he rolled his eyes, muttering, "Thanks for the advice," before quickly slipping out the door, eager to avoid any more of Freddy's teasing.
Freddy watched him go, his eyes softening as Ivan disappeared into the night. He stood there a long while, the only sound the ticking of the wall clock, each tick a reminder of time slipping by. With a sigh, he murmured to the empty room, "If you do end up falling out there, Ivan… I'll come for you. I'll bring you home and see you properly put to rest."
The room fell silent, save for the soft ticking of the clock and the faint, lingering smell of cigarette smoke.