Ivan stepped out of the shop, his stomach satisfied but his pockets feeling light. With a quick glance down the bustling street, he raised a hand, signaling for a Taxi. As he waited, he mentally counted the crumpled bills and scattered coins left in his wallet.
"Only 1926 dollars and 30 cents left," he muttered, shaking his head. "How did I manage to burn through so much so quickly?"
The past few days had been a whirlwind of expenses; necessary, he thought, but still costly. He'd been cautious, trying to stretch each dollar as far as it would go, but somehow, the money had slipped through his fingers.
"Ah, forget it," he told himself, trying to lighten his mood. "Spend where you need to, save where you can. No point skimping too much. A man's gotta live, after all."
Just then, a Taxi pulled up beside him, its wheels creaking slightly under the weight of the bustling day. The driver, a young Irish man with earnest eyes and an athletic build, looked barely twenty. He leaned forward, lowering his voice.
"Mr. Ivan, Jackie sent me. He said your… enemy is close by. He told me to get you out of here safely."
Ivan's eyes widened, though only for a moment. Jackie, always vigilant, always reliable. A man with ears everywhere.
"Just call me Mr. Ivan," he replied with a friendly smile, settling himself in the Taxi without any airs. "No need for formalities like 'sir.' Those days are long gone."
The young man gave a quick nod and, with a swift, practiced movement, took off, pulling Ivan down the crowded street at a brisk pace. The Taxi bounced along the uneven roads, each jolt reminding Ivan of the urgency of his escape from Zoet District.
After a few moments, Ivan glanced over his shoulder and then leaned forward. "Did Jackie tell you who was looking for me? How many of them there were?"
The driver shook his head. " Jackie didn't say, and he told me not to ask."
Ivan nodded, understanding. Jackie likely wanted to keep this young man out of whatever conflict lay ahead. The world of wizards and their grudges was no place for a simple Taxi driver.
The young man's face was tense but focused. He kept his eyes on the road, skillfully weaving through pedestrians and street vendors. Ivan noted his professionalism and respect for boundaries. In America, knowing when to stay quiet was as valuable a skill as any.
"Where to next, Mr. Ivan?" the young man asked, his voice barely rising above the noise of the street.
Ivan checked his watch. It was already half-past four. Time was slipping away.
"Take me to the docks," he instructed. "Stop when I tell you."
The driver gave a silent nod and continued, pushing forward with renewed determination. Jackie had told him this man was no ordinary passenger. Ivan had once been a top university student, until a brush with the wrong official had forced him into a life of evasion and exile. For the young driver, such tales served as cautionary legends, and he knew better than to pry. In America, the fewer questions you asked, the longer you survived.
Ivan settled back, closing his eyes as if resting, but his mind raced. He mentally cataloged the items stashed in his pockets, each one a potential lifeline. Everything in Bridgewick was wrapped up; now he just needed to grab his papers and slip away unnoticed.
But he knew better than to count on a clean getaway. If the gang caught wind of his location, things could turn ugly fast. His fingers brushed against the small charms and tools hidden on him: the Whisperer's Bone Awl, a vial of paralyzing agent, a spritz of rooster's blood, and, his last resort, a concealed pistol. Not much, but enough for close-quarters defense. Against a beast-type wizard, though, his best chance lay in the element of surprise.
The Taxi rounded a corner, and the faint smell of the docks drifted on the breeze; salt, fish, and the heavy undertone of oil and sewage. They were close. The cobbled streets grew slick with puddles, and the noise of the city gave way to the distant clamor of sailors and traders.
"Alright, stop here," Ivan said, tapping the side of the Taxi.
The driver slowed to a halt, pulling over just before they reached Wharf Street. Ivan reached into his pocket, drawing out a 25-cent coin, which he handed to the young man.
"Here, take this. Now listen; get out of here and lay low for a day. Things could get dangerous."
The young man pocketed the coin, his gaze solemn. He nodded, moving a few steps away with his Taxi before turning back.
"Mr. Ivan," he said softly, "take care of yourself too."
Ivan offered a small smile, his eyes flickering with something between gratitude and resolve. Without a word, he turned and walked toward the Hamptonians Café, blending into the crowd as he disappeared into the thrumming heart of the docks.
As you push open the café's polished wooden door, the gentle chime of a bell accompanies the wave of warm, rich aromas that wash over you. The air is thick with the scent of freshly brewed coffee, mingled with faint hints of chocolate and spices, inviting you deeper into its cozy embrace.
Ivan stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the sparsely populated café. A few patrons were scattered across the room, lost in their own worlds, sipping quietly, reading newspapers, or gazing out the windows. Today, it seemed, the café was simply a café; no lively gatherings, no secret meetings, just the soft murmur of a quiet evening.
"No signs of trouble so far," he thought, glancing around with a mix of caution and relief. "Surely, they wouldn't set an ambush in such a public place… would they?"
Swallowing his unease, Ivan steadied himself and began looking for Hammer, his eyes darting from table to table. He noted the relaxed bartender polishing glasses, the waiter shuffling between tables with practiced ease, and the customers paying him no mind whatsoever. Everything seemed ordinary, almost deliberately so, as if the whole place was conspiring to tell him, "You're safe here."
Still, he couldn't shake his caution. Keeping his guard up, he slipped into the stairwell. Oddly, the walls, usually decorated with masks of various shapes and sizes, were bare, stripped down to plain, unassuming plaster. Something about the absence felt eerie, as if the café was quietly shifting its face, concealing secrets in plain sight.
On the second floor, the atmosphere was even more subdued. The soft glow of an incandescent lamp filtered through a warm amber lampshade, casting a gentle light across the thick carpet that muffled his footsteps. Silence hung in the air, thick and heavy, as Ivan moved down the hallway, his senses on high alert.
He finally reached a sturdy wooden door marked with a bronze plaque reading "202." Seeing the familiar number, he let out a small sigh of relief. "Maybe I'm just being paranoid," he thought. "The gang has bigger fish to fry; I'm not the only wizard trying to stay under the radar in this city."
There were over forty unaffiliated wizards in Bridgewick alone, and more than a dozen had reached the formidable rank of D. Ivan was not the gang's sole concern, nor their only potential recruit.
Reassured, he turned the handle and eased the door open. A warm, golden light streamed in from a large French window, illuminating the room. There, seated on a worn sofa with his head bowed, was Hammer. Relief flashed across Ivan's face, and he opened his mouth to speak; only to freeze as his eyes fell on the three other figures in the room.
Opposite Hammer sat two men with distinctly different energies. One was Owens, the gang's notorious "makeup artist," known for his skill in creating faces and disguises; both on people and corpses. Beside him was Henshaw, the "interrogator," a tall, imposing man whose silent gaze could make even the bravest shrink.
The third figure, a man in a black flat hat, stood by the window, facing away from them all, watching the setting Jackie dip over the distant sea. He exuded authority, his presence casting a shadow over the room despite the golden glow of the Jackieset.
Hammer's face twisted with discomfort, caught between fear and guilt. His voice came out in a pathetic, trembling murmur, "It's not my fault, Ivan. They… they forced me into this."
Ivan's eye twitched, barely suppressing a burst of irritation. So this was why Hammer had been so willing to meet here. The old man had sold him out. He swallowed his anger, though every fiber of his being wanted to spit a choice American curse.
As if sensing his silent fury, Owens smiled, lifting a hand in greeting, while Henshaw rose from his seat, his steely gaze fixed on Ivan.
The man in the black hat finally turned around. He moved slowly, deliberately, revealing a rugged, unassuming face marked by a few deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. His overcoat collar was turned up, casting a shadow that made his expression difficult to read.
"Ivan," he began, his voice low and steady, "born in Seris, educated, came to Bridgewick two years ago, and apparently became a wizard around the same time." His tone carried a hint of surprise, as if Ivan's story had confounded his expectations. "I have to say, we thought you were just another poor soul struggling to get by."
The man took a step closer, his gaze unwavering. "Our sources say you met with your former manager yesterday morning. Picked up a nice chunk of cash, did you? Tell me, Ivan… can your magic control others?"
Ivan forced a smile, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing him rattled. "I used my brain. That's all."
A slight smirk tugged at the corners of the man's mouth. "Good answer. Intelligence is exactly what we need."
With a cool, calculating expression, he introduced himself. "I'm Baker Bruno, one of the four lieutenants of the Bridgewick Gang. And I'm here to make you an offer, Ivan. Join us. A man of your abilities would find a valuable place within our ranks."
Ivan raised an eyebrow, his body instinctively tense. He didn't like the way this was heading. With a quick wave of his hand, he replied, "Thanks, but no thanks. I'd rather keep my independence."
Bruno's face remained impassive, unfazed by the rejection. "You're ambitious, Ivan. And ambition deserves reward. We can help you reach level 2D, and with my guidance, maybe even 1D someday."
His eyes glinted with a dangerous promise. "This isn't just an invitation to work under us. It's an opportunity to rise. You could eventually replace one of the other lieutenants, hold the same status as me within the gang."
The room fell silent, everyone's eyes fixed on Ivan, waiting for his response. Ivan held Bruno's gaze, weighing his options, sensing the threat underlying every word.
"I'm really not interested," Ivan said firmly, taking a cautious step back, his eyes darting to the door as if gauging an escape route.
Owens, with an almost casual indifference, stood up and walked past him, swinging the door shut with a heavy thud. The room felt smaller, the air thickening with an unspoken threat.
"A shame," Bruno murmured, a faint smirk twisting his lips as he shrugged off his coat, folding it with care before draping it over the sofa. He looked up, his eyes cold and calculating. "In that case, I'm afraid this is where your journey ends."
Ivan's heart raced, but he kept his voice steady. "Look, we don't have to take this to a deadly conclusion. I just want to get out of Bridgewick, that's all."
Bruno gave him a dismissive look, his face devoid of emotion. "The gang doesn't care about you enough to kill you. But me? I have my own… reasons."
Ivan's brows knitted in confusion. He studied Bruno's expression, trying to read him. "Reasons? What did I ever do to you? Did I owe you money in some past life or something?"
Bruno chuckled, shaking his head. "No, no debts here. But let me enlighten you. In our gang, there's a strict rule: we're not allowed to raise our rank freely, especially not to the coveted C-level. Our leader is a 4C, and due to the limited number of C-level wizards in the city, he's managed to keep his position stable for a long time."
He paused, letting his words sink in. "Right now, he's strong enough to keep us all in check. But the moment someone else hits C-level, that balance is shattered."
Ivan narrowed his eyes, piecing it together. In their world, the hierarchy was deadly and rigid. "So, the leader's been blocking everyone from moving up, keeping you all as D-levels. That way, he's safe. A gang full of D-level wizards sees each other as competition, but no one would dare challenge him."
"Exactly," Bruno nodded, a glint of ambition sparking in his eyes. "But here's the loophole; if I kill a D-level wizard, I can inch closer, gain a small boost. And I'm already at 1D. One more kill… and I ascend to 5C."
Ivan's mind raced. "Then why bother with me? Hammer's right here. Wouldn't he make an easier target?"
Bruno shook his head with a twisted smile. "Hammer? Oh, he stays alive. You see, I've stationed the others around the docks and the train station. Once Hammer's disappearance is noticed, everyone would assume I'd killed him. Our dear leader wouldn't hesitate to hunt me down, eager to snatch up any advantage to climb himself."
"But you," Bruno continued, his voice a whisper dripping with malice, "you're different. If I deal with you quietly, no one would even know you're gone. They'd just think you slipped out of town. And in that silence, I'll have climbed to 5C, undisputed."
Ivan's fists clenched. "So, there's no room for negotiation? What if I… reconsidered? Join the gang, call it even?"
Bruno's smile was all teeth, predatory. "Oh, it's far too late for that. You've run out of options."
He advanced, each step deliberate, his gaze fixed on Ivan, watching every move, every twitch of his fingers. Ivan's mind raced through his options; none of them good. Then, in a quick sleight of hand, a small black pistol appeared in his grip, seemingly out of nowhere.
Bruno's eyes widened, and he threw himself to the side in a desperate dive.
But Ivan's expression remained cool, his aim steady. He raised the gun and squeezed the trigger.
"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"
The shots echoed through the small room, each one tearing through the thick tension, each one fired with the precision of a man fighting for his life.