The world fell silent, as if holding its breath. Hours slipped by like fleeting minutes, unnoticed in the dim haze of Ashwyn's small, crumbling room.
A rat, bold and oblivious, emerged from a jagged hole in the wall, its tiny claws skittering across the floor. It darted to the tattered bag of groceries, rummaging through wilted vegetables with single-minded purpose.
Ashwyn, slouched against the wall, barely registered the creature's presence. Her mind was elsewhere, tangled in the day's chaos.. dodging officials, weaving through Nyxoria's shadowed alleys, and narrowly escaping the iron grip of the Royal Government's enforcers.
What a day!
The rat wrestled with a stubborn piece of cabbage when a loud knock shattered the stillness. Ashwyn's heart lurched, her thoughts snapping to Ren's warning.
Her breath caught, muscles tensing as she braced for the inevitable. But then she scoffed, shaking off the fear.
'If it were the officials, they wouldn't knock. They'd barge in, making sounds like those beasts the Royal Family banned—ermmm...dogs, that's what they're called.'
Another knock, sharper this time, cut through her thoughts.
"Tchhh… Ashhy!" a gravelly, masculine voice bellowed from beyond the door.
Ashwyn's lips curled into a smirk. "I'd know that voice anywhere," she muttered, hauling herself up. She swung the door open, and a wave of sour odor hit her—sweat, blood, and something fouler. The man before her was no official.
He was Muckboots, a walking disaster of a human, as far from the pristine enforcers as one could get.
Muckboots stood there, a grotesque monument to grime. His gut spilled over a belt that groaned under the strain, jiggling with each squelching step. His vest, once possibly burgundy, was now a patchwork of stains of blood, oil, and a smear of sauce that defied identification. It was pinned together with copper wire and sharpened nails, barely containing a fraying cotton shirt with blackened cuffs.
Cracked goggles perched uselessly on his bald, sweat-slicked forehead, a dented bowler hat with a bullet hole flopping over one ear. A soot-stained scarf draped around his neck, less a fashion statement than a shield for his double chins when nobles passed by.
Tiny lockpicks dangled from his thick wrists, some crusted with dried blood. His boots.. one knee-high and leather-bound, the other a cracked mess laced with wire and corset string, lived up to his name. Muckboots didn't just wear filth; he was filth, moving slow and sticky, impossible to shake off.
He barged past her, claiming the bed with the grace of a wild beast. "Idiot," he growled, his voice dripping with disdain. "Heard you almost got caught again today. You're wanted now, Ashhy. Keep this up, and the boss'll have your head on a spike."
Ashwyn rolled her eyes, tossing him a crumpled stack of five thousand shillings.
"At least I didn't get caught," she shot back.
Muckboots counted the notes, his cracked lips splitting into a grin.
"Hmmm, as usual, the legendary Ashhy returns with a fortune," he said, sarcasm thick as the grime on his fingers. He extended his left palm, waggling it expectantly. "You know the drill, Ashhy. Don't play me."
She hissed, digging into her pocket for more yellow notes and slapping them into his hand.
"You're a leech, Muck."
He chuckled, unperturbed.
"Aah.. Ashhy, you shouldn't have killed the boss's horse. Wouldn't be in this mess if you'd kept your knife to yourself." He leaned back, picking up the rat still gnawing at the groceries. His thick fingers stroked its fur with unsettling tenderness.
Ashwyn slumped to the floor, crossing her arms. "I know, Muck. But it's not just the horse. Even if I pay off the debt, the boss won't let me go. You know how he is."
Muckboots' grin widened, revealing yellowed teeth. Then, with a casual flick, he squeezed the rat until it squeaked, its tiny skull crumpling. Blood oozed, and he licked it off his fingers, smacking his lips with a satisfied hum.
"Refreshing," he muttered, tearing off the rat's head and swallowing it whole.
Ashwyn didn't flinch. She'd seen worse, Muckboots once devoured a live lizard in front of her, scales and all.
"You're disgusting," she said, tossing him the watch. He caught it, inspected it with a grunt, and threw it back.
"Keep it," he said, fishing a raw fish from the grocery bag.
"For the road." He left a folded note on the bed, standing with a groan.
"One more slip, Ashhy, and I won't be coming alone next time."
She didn't respond, her expression unreadable as the door slammed shut. Alone again, she unfolded the note. Her eyes widened, then narrowed.
"The Xandros Family!" she spat, voice thick with disdain.
The Xandros Family was Nyxoria's iron fist, the so-called Royal Government. Their rules were law, their punishments brutal. Robbing them wasn't just risky, it was a death sentence. Yet, as the shock faded, Ashwyn's lips twisted into a grin. She cackled, the sound echoing in the dim room.
"The better the family, the bigger the loot."
A lowlife thief didn't falter. Fear was a luxury Ashwyn couldn't afford. Her hunger, however, was another matter. She glanced at the grocery bag, remembering Muckboots' filthy hands.
"It's just dirt, right?" she muttered, grabbing a bucket and heading out to fetch water. An hour later, the fish was boiled, vegetables and spices simmered into a meager stew. She pulled a wooden pot and spoon from under the bed, relics of a life she barely remembered.
After eating, Ashwyn doused the cinder light and collapsed onto the bed, staring into the darkness. Her mind often drifted to this void—an emptiness she craved. No thoughts, no feelings, just a hollow peace. She rarely spoke to anyone apart from Old Ren, Muckboots, or the boss. Words were a distraction, a betrayal of her goal: survival, nothing more.
But the quiet brought questions she couldn't escape.
'Peace is only for the dead,' she thought. 'The living chase it, but it's a lie. Emptiness is just pain in disguise. The dead don't move, don't feel.....'
'... We seek peace ..Death is peace... so why do we run from it?'
The question hung unanswered, chilling her as she lay still.
Hours passed, marked only by the watch at her side. By 7:00, exhaustion won, and Ashwyn drifted into sleep, dreaming of tomorrow's heist. The Xandros job was madness, but madness was her trade. And in Nyxoria's shadows, madness often paid.
This only thing about this word is the endless darkness. What could a low life thief possibly find new?