By late afternoon, the gray fog outside the window turned dark, but the room stayed warm.
The black coal inside the cast-iron stove crackled softly. Wanda stirred on the cot, coughing once into her hand before slowly opening her eyes. The heavy red flush on her cheeks was gone, and her breathing was light and clean.
She sat up, resting her back against the cold wall, and looked around the small space.
For the first time since the mortar crashed into their kitchen three days ago, the terrible ringing in her ears was gone. The cold panic that usually pressed against her chest had vanished. She looked across the room at Adrian, who was seated at the table cutting slices of hard bread. There was an odd, heavy quiet around him—like a solid brick wall keeping the bad noise out of the room.
"Wanda," Pietro gasped, jumping up from his crate.
He dropped his knife on the table and threw his arms around her neck. Wanda hugged him back tightly, resting her chin on his shoulder for a quiet second before Pietro pulled away, quickly clearing his throat to hide how scared he had been.
"You're awake," Pietro said, rubbing his sleeve across his face. "The fever broke."
"I feel fine," Wanda whispered, her voice rough. She looked over at the stove, then back to Adrian. "The pain just... stopped."
"The medicine worked," Adrian said simply, placing three tin plates and two steaming mugs on the pine table. "Come sit down. Eat while it's hot."
Pietro helped his sister over to the table. Adrian pushed the warm boiled eggs and the bread toward them. Wanda took a small sip of the hot water, her dark eyes studying Adrian over the rim of the cup. She wasn't an ordinary girl; she could feel things people couldn't see, and she knew there was nothing ordinary about the man sitting across from them.
"What do you want from us?" Wanda asked directly.
Pietro froze, an egg halfway to his mouth, glancing between his sister and Adrian.
"Wanda—" Pietro started.
"No, Pietro," Wanda said, her eyes staying fixed on Adrian. "We have no money. Our home is a hole in the dirt. We don't have parents anymore. Nobody helps people like us for free. So why did you drag us out of that cellar?"
Adrian set his mug down on the wood with a quiet thud.
"I'm not running a charity," Adrian said, keeping his voice calm and direct. "And I don't plan on selling you out. But this city is falling apart. The local government has no teeth, and foreign armies treat our streets like target practice. If you two run around out there on your own, one of two things will happen: either a stray bullet catches you in an alley, or someone notices you're different and locks you in a steel cage."
Pietro frowned. "Different how?"
"You know how," Adrian replied, looking at the boy's restless hands. "You twitch when you get nervous, Pietro. Faster than a normal body should. And Wanda feels things in the air before they happen. If you stay here, you have three rules."
Adrian held up three fingers.
"First, you don't pick fights on the street. Second, you don't show off any strange tricks to anyone, ever. Third, when I give an order, you listen. If you can do that, you get food, you get a warm bed, and you stay alive. If you can't, the door is right there."
Wanda stared at him for a long moment. "Why do you care about Novi Grad at all? Anyone with sense left for the border months ago."
"Running away doesn't fix anything," Adrian said, his gaze hard. "The people who dropped that shell on your roof have clean houses, warm food, and armies to keep them safe. It's time we had that here too."
Before Wanda could answer, heavy footsteps thudded against the concrete stairs outside.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
Shouting broke out in the corridor two floors down. A cheap wooden door splintered under a heavy boot, followed by a woman's terrified scream and the crash of pots hitting the floor.
"Open up! District militia! Hand over the tax or get out on the curb!"
Pietro jumped to his feet, his chair scraping loudly across the floorboards. He grabbed the iron butter knife from the table, his knuckles turning white as he moved toward the window. "They're doing sweeps. They take whatever they want and shoot anyone who talks back."
Adrian stood up smoothly, caught Pietro's wrist, and pushed him back down onto the crate. The grip was firm and immovable.
"Put the knife down," Adrian told him in a low, flat voice.
"They have guns, Adrian!" Pietro hissed through clenched teeth.
"Knives make noise, Pietro. Noise brings more men with bigger guns. Put the knife away, sit by your sister, and keep your mouth shut."
Pietro swallowed hard, looking into Adrian's unblinking eyes, before slowly slipping the dull knife into his coat pocket. Wanda pulled her blanket tighter, her fingers gripping the edge of the cot as her heart hammered.
Heavy boots stopped right outside the apartment door.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
The wood rattled violently against the frame.
"Open the door!" a rough, gravelly voice barked from the other side. "Militia inspection!"
Adrian walked over to the entryway, slid the bolt back with an easy click, and pulled the door open halfway.
Standing in the hallway were two men in dirty camouflage jackets, mud caked onto their combat boots. The man in front was broad-shouldered and thick-necked, with a greasy beard and a double-barreled hunting shotgun resting loosely in his arms. Behind him, a younger thug carried an old bolt-action rifle, holding a canvas sack stuffed with stolen bread, watches, and canned meat.
The bearded leader squinted at Adrian, sneering as he smelled the warm coal smoke leaking from the room.
"You're burning good coal," the leader said, spitting a dark clump of tobacco onto the floor. "Name is Marko. This whole block is under emergency wartime defense. Fifty German marks, or two full sacks of food. Pay up, or you and whoever is hiding inside sleep in the mud tonight."
Behind Adrian, Pietro tensed, ready to spring.
Adrian didn't raise his hands, and he didn't reach for a weapon. He didn't use telekinesis to crush their windpipes, nor did he phase through the floor. A dead militia squad in a hallway would only bring twenty more men with automatic rifles by nightfall.
Adrian took half a step forward and looked Marko straight in the eyes.
A faint, invisible ripple slid out from Adrian's mind, sharp and clean as a needle. He reached into Marko's thoughts, bypassed the fear and greed, and gently shifted a single piece of the man's memory.
He didn't break Marko's brain. He simply wrote a new fact into the man's head: Adrian Kovac is the personal bookkeeper for the regional district commander, and this entire floor had already paid its security tax for the next twelve months in cash.
Marko's sneer froze.
His bloodshot eyes glazed over for a fraction of a second, blinking rapidly as his head jerked back slightly. He looked at Adrian's face, then looked down at his own shotgun, suddenly looking very uncomfortable.
"Marko?" the younger thug behind him muttered, shifting the stolen sack. "What's the holdup? Kick the door open."
"Shut your mouth, Dragan!" Marko snapped, turning around and swatting the younger man on the shoulder.
Marko turned back to Adrian, quickly lowering the barrel of his shotgun until it pointed at the floorboards. The greasy sneer had completely vanished, replaced by an awkward, hurried grimace.
"Sorry about that, Mr. Kovac," Marko said, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of a dirty glove. "Didn't realize this was your unit. The paperwork at the front office is a mess today."
"It happens, Marko," Adrian said evenly, leaning against the doorframe. "Keep your men quiet on this landing. The noise is annoying."
"Right, of course. Right away," Marko said, nodding quickly. He took a step back, then hesitated, leaning in to whisper. "Just a heads-up, sir. Captain Vanev's squad is checking IDs near the northern bridge. If you need to move any goods, stick to the southern tram lines."
"Good to know," Adrian said. "Get back to work."
"Yes, sir," Marko muttered. He grabbed the younger thug by the collar and shoved him toward the stairs. "Come on, idiot. Next floor."
Adrian waited until the heavy boots clumped down the stairs and the shouting moved to the floor above. Then, he pulled the heavy wooden door shut, turned the iron bolt, and slid the chain into place.
The apartment was dead silent.
Pietro stood near the table, his mouth open, staring at the closed door as if a ghost had just walked through it. Wanda slowly let go of the blanket, her eyes wide as she looked from the door back to Adrian.
"He had a shotgun," Pietro whispered, looking at Adrian in pure shock. "He was going to throw us into the street. You didn't even raise your voice. How did you make him back down like a scared dog?"
Adrian walked back to the table, picked up his tin mug, and took a slow sip of hot water.
"Men like Marko are simple, Pietro," Adrian said quietly. "They only care about two things: what they can steal, and who can hurt them. You don't always need to fight to win a room. You just have to give them the answer they want to hear."
Pietro looked down at his own trembling hands, then looked up at Adrian with something that was no longer suspicion. It was real, unquestioning respect.
Adrian set the mug down and glanced toward the faded map pinned to the wall beside the stove.
Tricking small thugs on a stairwell was easy enough for today. But Marko worked for Captain Vanev, and Vanev took orders from the militia commanders running the district.
Playing defense only lasts so long, Adrian thought, his eyes narrowing on the southern sector of the map. Tomorrow, I stop dealing with the dogs and go find the man who holds their leash.