The faint glow of M Corp's signage bled down from the upper levels, a corporate promise of mental wellness and healing that never reached the cracks below. Down here, the city still breathed in jagged gasps, choking on its own violence.
A small woman sprinted through the labyrinth of concrete and steel, boots slapping against the rain-slick ground.
Behind her, shadows lengthened.
"Oi, oi…" A voice oozed amusement. "Where ya think yer running, missy?"
Three men emerged from the alley's dark corners, each dressed in sharp black suits that clung like a second skin. The only thing sharper than the cut of their jackets were the tattoos crawling up their bodies–black ink shaped like storm clouds and shifting wisps, climbing up necks, curling over hands. Their skin seemed alive, the tattoos pulsing faintly with unnatural strength.
The Kurokumo clan.
One henchman cracked his knuckles, the black-ink cloud on his forearm shifting like smoke in a storm. "Tsk. You ducked outta the arrangement, didn't you? Protection don't pay itself. City's a dangerous place for a lady without proper… friends."
Another, younger but no less cruel, adjusted his tie. The ink over his throat looked like a thunderhead choking his windpipe. "Don't worry. We ain't greedy. Just a lil' cut of whatever scraps you got."
The woman stumbled against a wall, eyes wide as the Kurokumo men fanned out, cornering her like wolves closing in.
M Corp's billboards flickered overhead, displaying smiling faces promising relief from trauma, escape from addiction, happiness on demand. But no smile reached this alley. No corporate hand would reach down here.
Only the shadows watched.
And somewhere high above one eye stared through the scope of a rifle, waiting.
CRACK!
The thunder of a rifle split the alley in two. A slug smacked the pavement just in front of the Kurokumo men, sparks flying as fragments of asphalt sprayed their polished shoes.
All three froze.
Then, like clockwork, the tattoos writhed up their arms. Cloud-ink pulsed, veins of black smoke crawling to their wrists. The men drew their odachi –long, curved blades that glimmered with fresh oil, their arcs too wide for such a narrow street.
The echo of boots clicked against the fire escape. A figure descended.
Blonde hair caught the light. A black eyepatch covered her right eye. A long rifle rested in her hands, its worn stock painted with nicks and scuffs–D-3IS, a relic of an old war.
"Hends off. Step beck. Dis Voman is under M Gorporation's brotection."
The Kurokumo bristled but did not move closer.
"Zis one," the sniper continued, pointing the rifle downward toward the trembling woman, "is a runaway patient. She belongs in Ze vard. Not mitt… Straßenhunde like you."
The insult landed. Even the boldest of the three narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
They knew better. Picking a fight with any syndicate was one thing—picking one with a Wing's policy was suicide.
The tallest of the men clicked his tongue, sheathing his odachi with a hiss. "Tch. Damn corp lapdogs… Keep her, then. Ain't worth the blood."
One after another, the Kurokumo withdrew, melting into the shadows of the alley, their tattoos dulling back into still ink.
For a moment, the backstreet was quiet save for the ragged breath of the rescued woman.
A trio of figures in pale jackets emerged from the side street—Fixers marked with M Corp's insignia. They bowed their heads slightly to the sniper before gently guiding the woman. Their voices were soft but firm, professional.
"Come now, miss. Back to the ward. The city will eat you alive if you stray."
The woman's protests were weak, fading. Soon, she disappeared into the night, escorted like a wayward child back to her cage.
The sniper stood alone, her rifle slung across her shoulder. She exhaled slowly, her good eye narrowed with disdain.
"Verdammt." Her hand brushed the rifle's chamber, still warm from the shot. A vasted round... all for a varning. In zis city, every bullet costs more zan a life."
She spat into the gutter, jaw tight, the faintest shadow of regret flashing across her face.
The woman struck a match against the rusting edge of the dumpster, the small flame flaring before it met the end of her cigarette. She inhaled deeply, smoke curling past her lips, and leaned into the kind of silence only a backstreet knew–thick, grim, and expectant.
Her single eye caught on something in the heap nearby. A chair–old, battered, but still with a shape worth saving. It had fine bones under the rot. She stepped closer, cigarette dangling from her lips, and ran a gloved hand along the splintered armrest. For a moment, she considered dragging it home, fixing it up.
But she wasn't the first to find it.
A loud thump shook the chair as Kamina dropped onto it, sprawling like a man who had just claimed a throne.
"Finally!" he groaned, throwing his head back. "Not a single place in this entire district that'll let us stay for the night–and now I find the one comfortable chair in the world, and it's mine!"
From the shadows of the alley, Shmuel staggered up at last, wiping the sweat from his brow. "You can argue over furniture later, Kamina. We've got maybe two hours before the Night of the Sweepers. We need shelter."
Behind him, Imogen appeared, a little unsteady but determined, and Pisanio followed at her side like a blade in waiting.
The woman with the cigarette squinted at Kamina, exhaling a thin stream of smoke.
"Scheiße," she said flatly. "Get off zis chair. It is mine now. I saw it first."
Kamina shot upright, scandalized. "What do you mean yours? I already claimed it with the weight of my ass! That's the law of the streets!"
Her lip curled. "Zat is no law, zat is idiocy. You vant chair, you fix chair. You sit on garbage now, ja?"
Kamina leaned forward, eyes blazing with the same absurd conviction he carried into battle. "Listen, lady—this chair is destiny! A man can't conquer the storm outside without a throne to rest on first!"
She took another drag, unimpressed. "Mein Gott. You are shmart as brick. Get off before I make you get off."
The cigarette glowed as she inhaled, and the standoff between her and Kamina was so strange, so trivial, that even Shmuel had to rub his temple in disbelief.
The woman's gaze drifted past Kamina's ridiculous throne-claim, past the small princess with her pale hair, and fixed squarely on Pisanio. Her eye narrowed. She let the cigarette dangle as her hands began checking over the long, weathered rifle at her side.
"I know zis armor," she said slowly, tapping ash to the ground. "Ja… I haf seen it before. Brithelm's plate. Infamous set. Seven decades ago, zat order splintered—knights leaving to crawl as syndicate dogs." Her voice was flat, but heavy with disdain. "And now… one stands here, in M Corp's gutter."
Pisanio stiffened, but said nothing.
"Pfah," she spat, adjusting the strap of the rifle as she leveled her eye back on him. "Ve in M Corp do not take kindly to knight orders. Especially not runavays. So—answer. Vhy are you here?"
Her head tilted. Then she saw it.
Beside Pisanio, the girl with the snow-white hair tipped in red stood silently. Wide pale eyes, unmistakable even in the dim backstreet light.
The woman froze. Her breath caught. Then she slowly lowered the rifle.
"Mein Gott…" she muttered. "How much of fool can one man be, to bring… her… out here."
Pisanio's expression didn't flicker.
From the heap of garbage, Kamina waved lazily, still sprawled across his "throne."
"Oi, rifle-lady, don't get all twisted up. We're just looking for a place to crash, alright? Night of the Sweepers is about to hit, and all we want is to reach X Corp's nest without turning this whole city upside down."
He leaned forward, eyes squinting at her outfit–fitted coat, reinforced pads.
"And what's with your getup anyway? Looks less like some knight armor and more like–uhhh… some sorta… fighty… uniform… like a soldier–but not soldier–like, uh–like, uh–"
"Military personnel outfit," Shmuel sighed, dragging his palm down his face. "He's trying to say it looks like a military uniform."
Kamina snapped his fingers and grinned. "Yeah! That! That's the word I was groping for!"
The woman exhaled a slow plume of smoke, staring at them as if they were circus animals escaped onto her street.
The woman flicked the last of her cigarette into the gutter, crushing it under her boot before slinging the long rifle across her back.
"…Name is Sophia Steinburg. Solo Fixer. I vork alone. Always haf, always vill."
Shmuel straightened, brushing dust from his coat as if this introduction required formality.
"Shmuel. From the Great Kamina Office." He gestured loosely toward Kamina, who was still lounging on the chair like a crowned fool.
Sophia's single eye narrowed. "Hah. A man who names office after himself. Full of himself, ja? I haf no taste for such things. Offices zat wear de name of deir own heads always reek of vanity."
Kamina just threw his arms wide and laughed. "Full of myself? Nah, I don't stop at full–I'm overflowing!"
Shmuel pinched the bridge of his nose, and continued.
"This is Imogen," he said, motioning to the pale-haired girl. "And this is Pisanio. He's–"
"I know vat he is," Sophia cut in sharply. "Armor speaks before he does." Her gaze lingered for a moment on the knight, but she did not raise the rifle again.
Instead, she jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward the crooked alleys.
"Come. My house is near. You vill not survive Night of de Sweepers in gutter. Follow me if you vant to live."
Kamina hopped up from the chair, hands on hips. "Finally!"
But Pisanio's voice stopped him mid-step. "Why?" His tone was careful, but firm. "Why offer us shelter, when you clearly distrust us? Distrust me?"
Sophia tilted her head, then turned back briefly.
"…Because I vas once friend to Imogen's mother. Before she married de Grey King of Brithelm."
Imogen froze. Then her eyes lit up like a spark catching tinder.
"My–my mother? You knew her? What was she like? Did she smile often? What did she–what did she say to you? What did she wear? Did she ever–"
She rushed forward, bombarding Sophia with questions so quickly the others could only stare.
Sophia exhaled through her nose, muttering, "Verdammt, girl talks like machine gun…" Then she started walking again.
Behind them, Kamina pointed at the discarded chair.
"Oi! Bring the chair! That's a good chair, no way we're leaving it here!"
Sophia rolled her eye heavenward. "…Idiot. Fine. Bring your trash throne. I care not."
Shmuel sighed and lifted it with one hand, carrying it along like the most absurd baggage.
Kamina swung his arms behind his head. He glanced at Shmuel..
"So… knights. What's that all about anyway?"
Shmuel adjusted his grip on the chair. "Knights… well, this district's tied up with MDM Enterprise–M Corp. They oversee mental health, trauma care, therapy, that sort of thing. District 13 works differently than most. They've got Knight Orders–Fixer Offices that act like miniature armies. You can hire them the way you'd hire any office, but their reputation is bound to oaths and service, not just contracts."
Kamina whistled low, but didn't comment further.
Shmuel went on, his tone more cautious. "I only know the surface. Last time I was here, we worked on the Whitecircle case. That was at the rear of the district. Didn't get close to the Knight Orders themselves."
"Knights are bound by oath heavier than chains. A Fixer can find loopholes, walk away. A knight cannot. To break an oath is to break oneself." Pisanio's hand touched the edge of his armor unconsciously. "The oath of Brithelm binds us to serve the Grey King and his subjects. To walk away from that is nearly unheard of. I am… rare."
Imogen, walking close by him, tilted her pale head. "Then… what about you?" She looked at Sophia's figure leading ahead, her voice eager. "What knight order do you belong to?"
."None now. Long ago, I took an oath. My knight order vas small. Four people only."
Imogen's eyes widened, the glow in them sparking brighter. "Four people…? And–my mother? She was one of them?"
Sophia's silence stretched just long enough to sting before she gave a sharp nod. "Ja. She vas one of us. Strongest of us. Sharp as steel, and just as cutting when she needed to be."
Imogen almost stumbled over her own feet in her rush to get closer. "Then–then how? How did she–how did my mother become queen? If she was a knight, if she was a fixer, how did she end up with my father?"
Sophia's eye narrowed, and her tone softened, though only slightly. "Is long story. Not one for alley, not vhile Sweepers creep already from shadows. At my house, I tell you. Vith walls and roof, maybe a drink."
Imogen nodded, her expression lit up.
The house they arrived at was not what Kamina expected when he heard the word home. It was a squat, three-story building tucked into a forgotten row of the backstreets, its façade stained by decades of rain and smoke. The windows were barred, the doors reinforced. Not a place for family warmth–more like an office that had been abandoned long ago, then forced into reluctant service as a shelter.
Inside, it was sparse but not without care. Maps of the district were pinned on walls, stacks of old files and weapon crates lined the corners, and a single, battered couch faced a coffee table scarred with knife marks.
Shmuel set the rescued chair down in the middle of the living room. Kamina immediately dropped into it.
"See? Worth bringing it,"
Sophia didn't argue. She only glanced at him, before turning to the stove in the corner. "Zis place vas office once," she said flatly. "My knight order's. Ve four lived here, vorked here, fought from here. Now only I remain."
The kettle hissed as she filled it and set it on the burner. The smell of heat slowly filled the room. She moved with an economy of motion, pulling a tin from a shelf, spooning powder into mugs, preparing cacao.
Imogen sat at the table, hands clasped in her lap, eyes fixed on Sophia. She couldn't keep quiet.
"My mother… you knew her. What was she like, here?"
Sophia paused, then spoke without turning. "Best shot I ever saw. Her mechanical eyes–ven she pulled trigger, every bullet struck. Ve counted her misses on fingers, all of dem. And still fingers left over." She poured hot water into the mugs, steam rising between her words.
Imogen's white eyes flickered.
Sophia finally turned, her gaze locking on them. "I recognized at once… you haf same eyes. Mechanical, ja. Inherited. But… is strange."
"Strange?" Imogen echoed, tilting her head.
"Dose eyes–they enhance vision, take in more information zan normal human mind can handle. Every detail–you will see all. But price is heavy. Brain overloads. Life shortens."
"If it wasn't for these eyes… I'd be brain-dead already. They're the only reason I'm alive."
The kettle gave a sharp whistle. Sophia said nothing for a long moment. Then she poured the water, stirred, and placed two mugs carefully on the table.
"One for you." She slid the cup to Imogen, who cupped it in her small hands, letting the warmth chase away the cold. "And one for you." She set the other before Shmuel, whose tired face softened at the sight of the steaming drink.
Imogen brought the cup to her lips and sipped. Heat spread through her chest—sweet, bitter, the cocoa thicker than anything she'd had in the Castle. For a moment the alley and the battle and the city all melted away.
"It tastes like… like the time Mother made one for me, late at night," she said, voice small. The memory lingered on her tongue like sugar and smoke. "She said hot cacao made everything less scary."
Sophia watched her from the stove, one hand against the counter, the other still holding the cigarette between two fingers. She nodded once, then set the cigarette in an ashtray with economy. Her single good eye was sharp and old in its way.
"I can give you old gun zat your mutter used," Sophia said, her voice low and even, shaped by that clipped cadence. "Not decoration. Real gun. Make no illusions—gun change things."
Pisanio's gaze didn't flicker. He leaned on the table, blade-shadow on his thigh, and said plainly, without melodrama, "My lady, you are required to kill someone soon or later."
Imogen didn't flinch. She met Pisanio's eyes and said nothing. She understood how the city worked from Locke's play. She had seen promises and bargains. She'd watched men die. Acceptance sat on her like a mask she'd learned to wear from the great actor.
Sophia's mouth tightened. She looked at Imogen, then at Pisanio, then down at the steaming cup. "Zis child carry blood of Grey King," she muttered, half to herself. "Not only crown, but curse. If one born of zat line walk de streets, ve know village will not sleep."
"She bears consequence of her origins. We can only decide what manner of life she gets to live under that weight."
"Finish zis cup. A warm belly makes a better mind. I go upstairs–get you a gun. Old Barrett-11. Fifteen years old, but I keep it cleaner zan some men keep wives' names. Only ten bullets. Bullets cost like life in dis gidy. Vat you do with it—your business. But if you must step into fire, at least step with tools dat do not fail."
The room felt smaller, the air heavier. Steam curled from the cups like ghosts that would not be ignored. Imogen cradled her mug and drank it down slower now, the warmth sinking into her like a promise and a condemnation at once.
Sophia set the empty cup aside, straightened her back, and climbed the narrow stairs. Her boots thudded on the steps with the sound of old oaths–steady, inevitable. She passed the second floor of maps and weapon crates, pushed open the attic hatch, and went up into the dim loft where she kept what mattered most with carefully wrapped cases, a tarpaulin, and, under a canvas, the long silhouette of the Barrett-11.
She peeled the cover back. The rifle itself was scarred but immaculate with the metal having been buffed to a dull sheen, the stock rubbed to a soft patina from long handling. Sophia lifted it like one might lift a relic of a life survived. She checked the magazine–ten rounds, tightly packed.
Downstairs, the conversation slowed into a low hum. Outside, the city carried on its cyclical breath: deals struck, debts collected, grudges folded into contracts. The idea of vengeance sat in the room like a second shadow–always waiting, always hungry. Sophia gathered the Barrett, secured it in a shoulder case, and descended the stairs.
The house smelled of hot chocolate and oil, of old paper and salt, of things cared for because they had to be cared for. When she reached the living room again she set the rifle on the table and looked at the girl with white hair.
"Zis is tool," she said bluntly. "Ten bullets. Make of it vat you must. But remember—cycle feed on hands that keep using blade and bullet. Blood begets contract, contract begets more blood. If you reach for revenge, be sure you know who you become while you are reachin'. If you wiz for hope then be prepare to be cursed"
Imogen's gaze did not waver. In the quiet that followed, everyone could feel the city's fast turning with a wheel that ground lives into currency, and sometimes the very things that promised justice only sharpened new teeth.