Adrian walked up the dark tenement stairs and knocked three times on the wooden door, slow and even.
The lock clicked back almost instantly. Pietro pulled the door open, his eyes darting down the hallway before he stepped back to let Adrian inside. The boy looked tired, but the tension in his shoulders dropped the moment the door was shut and bolted.
Adrian walked over to the pine table and set down what he was carrying.
First came a paper sack of roasted coffee beans and a loaf of warm, crusty white bread. Then, he dropped a thick brown envelope and a ring of heavy brass keys onto the wood with a dull thud.
Pietro frowned, stepping closer to look at the envelope. He pulled the flap open and froze. His eyes went wide as he stared at the dense stacks of crisp German marks.
"Did you rob a bank?" Pietro whispered, his voice cracking.
"I had a chat with Captain Vanev," Adrian said, unbuttoning his coat. "He decided to be helpful."
Wanda walked over from the cot, picked up the small paper bag, and held it to her nose. A tiny smile appeared on her face as she took in the rich, bitter scent of real coffee.
"Nobody in Novi Grad gives away this much money just to be helpful, Adrian," Wanda said, looking at him with her dark, serious eyes. "What did you do to him?"
"I gave him a better boss," Adrian replied simply, pulling a chair out and sitting down. "And now we need to move."
Pietro looked up from the money. "Move? Why? We just got the stove working."
"Because this place is a trap," Adrian said, tapping the table. "The walls are thin, the floorboards creek, and the neighbors watch every person who walks through the front door. If food crates and coal sacks start showing up here every week, people will talk. Talk brings thieves, and thieves bring more militia. We need thick walls, a fence, and doors that actually lock."
He pointed at the brass keys.
"Those belong to the southern rail supply depot," Adrian explained. "There's an office and living quarters on the second floor. It has running water, private heating, steel window shutters, and the guards at the gate answer to Vanev now. We're packing light. Take the blankets, the pot, and the bread. We leave in five minutes."
They didn't own enough to waste time packing. Wanda rolled up the two wool blankets and tied them with twine. Pietro grabbed the kettle, the tin plates, and the bread, stuffing them into an empty flour sack.
Within ten minutes, the tenement room was empty. Adrian took one last look around the cold concrete box, made sure the iron stove was banked with ash, and led them down the back stairs into the alley.
The river fog was thicker now, hanging low over the muddy streets. Adrian walked in front with his hands in his pockets, while Pietro and Wanda stayed close behind his shoulders.
At the southern crossing, two concrete barriers blocked the road leading toward the rail yards. A wooden checkpoint booth stood in the gravel, surrounded by coils of rusted wire. Two militia fighters in long gray coats stood near a burning oil drum, bolt-action rifles slung across their chests.
As the three approached, one of the guards stepped out into the road, holding up a gloved hand.
"Halt," the guard grunted, sizing them up. "Rail zone is restricted. Civilian transit is closed after midday. Turn around."
Pietro instantly stiffened behind Adrian, his feet shifting as if preparing to bolt.
Adrian didn't stop, and he didn't argue. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the stiff red document card Vanev had stamped, and held it out.
The guard took the card, his face bored—until his eyes landed on the dark purple wax seal and Vanev's personal signature.
The man's spine went rigid. The bored sneer vanished from his mouth, and he hastily handed the pass back with both hands, his boots snapping together in an awkward salute.
"Sir! Didn't see the insignia," the guard stammered, his voice dropping an octave. "Clear passage for you and your staff. Gate two is unlocked."
"Thank you," Adrian said quietly, slipping the card back into his coat. "Carry on."
Adrian walked past the barrier into the depot grounds. Behind him, Pietro looked back at the armed guard, who was still standing at attention in the fog. The boy shook his head, baffled by how easily the gun-toting militia stepped aside for a piece of paper.
"A piece of cardboard," Pietro muttered under his breath, catching up to Adrian. "You waved a red card, and he almost fell over himself."
"A gun only controls the person standing in front of it," Adrian said, walking along the gravel track. "Authority controls the men holding the guns. Remember that."
The rail depot was massive. Dozens of rusted freight wagons and green fuel tankers sat quietly on dead-end tracks. High brick walls topped with barbed wire sealed off the perimeter, keeping the street chaos outside.
At the back of the lot stood a two-story administration building made of solid red brick. It looked like a small fortress.
Adrian walked up the stone steps, unlocked the heavy oak door with one of the brass keys, and pushed it open.
Inside, the air was cool and dry, free of the damp mold that choked the slums. Downstairs was a dispatch office filled with wooden desks and empty filing cabinets. Up the sturdy wooden staircase was the living quarters.
The space was far larger than Adrian's old room. There was a wide central room with a cast-iron wood stove, a small kitchen counter with a real brass faucet, and two separate bedrooms down a short hall. Each bedroom had a solid bed frame and a clean mattress. Best of all, the windows had heavy iron shutters bolted to the masonry, ready to be barred from the inside.
Wanda walked over to the kitchen sink and turned the faucet handle.
Water sputtered, then flowed out in a clean, steady stream. She let out a small, amazed laugh, resting her fingers under the cool water.
"It actually works," she said, looking back over her shoulder.
Pietro had already set his bundle down and was checking the iron latches on the window shutters. He pulled on the iron bars, testing their strength, then checked the lock on the back fire door. When he finished his circuit, he leaned against the doorframe, letting out a long, slow breath.
For the first time since their family apartment had collapsed, the boy didn't look like he was waiting for the ceiling to fall.
Adrian walked into the kitchen, found an old iron kettle, rinsed it out, and filled it with clean water. He set it on the stove, lit the dry pine kindling stacked in the hearth, and crushed a handful of the roasted coffee beans with the flat side of a heavy iron cleaver.
Within fifteen minutes, the smell of dark, rich coffee filled the warm brick room.
Adrian poured three mugs and brought them over to the oak table. He sliced the warm bread, handed pieces to Pietro and Wanda, and sat down in the high-backed wooden chair.
They ate and drank in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Outside, the wind rattled the tin gutters, but inside the brick walls, it felt like an entirely different world.
"This is better," Wanda said softly, cupping the warm mug between her palms. "Much better."
"It's a start," Adrian said. He set his cup down and looked at both of them. "Now that we have a secure place to sleep, we need to talk about what happened back in that cellar."
Pietro stopped chewing, his eyes darting to Adrian. "What about it?"
"You didn't survive that mortar because of luck," Adrian said, his tone serious and quiet. "And you didn't run across that room just because you were scared. There is something dormant inside both of you. Power."
Wanda lowered her eyes to her coffee, her fingers tightening around the ceramic. Faint, tiny sparks of red static flickered near her knuckles for a split second before vanishing into the air.
"We don't know what it is," Wanda whispered. "Sometimes... when I'm terrified, the air feels heavy. Things stop moving right."
"And your legs," Adrian said, looking at Pietro. "Your nerve endings fire faster than any normal human body can handle."
Pietro looked down at his boots, frowning. "Is something wrong with us?"
"No," Adrian answered firmly. "You were born with gifts. But right now, you don't know how to control them. Power without control is just an accident waiting to happen. It will either hurt you, hurt each other, or draw the wrong kind of attention."
Adrian stood up and walked over to the office desk in the corner. He pulled a large, folded paper map of Novi Grad from the drawer, unfolded it on the corkboard hanging on the wall, and pressed four brass thumbtacks into the corners.
"Starting tomorrow, behind these walls, we begin training," Adrian said, turning back to them. "You learn discipline. You learn how to keep the power quiet until you need it."
Pietro leaned back against the counter, sipping his coffee as he stared at the map.
"So we have food, money, and guards who don't shoot at us," Pietro said, his voice quiet. "What do we do now?"
Adrian picked up a thick red grease pencil from the desk. He drew a firm, clean circle around the southern industrial rail ward, right where they were standing.
"Now we fix the local power line, make sure this ward has clean flour, and get ready for the municipal elections next year," Adrian said, his eyes steady on the map. "We build our own ground, Pietro. One block at a time."