The stink of the fishmonger's stall clung to them like a curse. Gerhart counted the few coins, his face a mask of disgust. "Pathetic," he grunted, shoving them into a leather pouch. "Barely covers the interest. This shit is a waste of our time."
Lutz said nothing. His role was to be the quiet shadow, the reasonable voice when needed. After the cobbler, the words felt like ash in his mouth. They moved out of the cramped stall and into a narrow, cobbled alley that ran parallel to the main wharf, the air thick with the smell of salt, rot, and piss.
They'd taken only a dozen steps when three figures detached themselves from the deep shadows of a warehouse doorway, blocking their path. They were lean and hard, moving with the lazy confidence of predators. Each wore a jacket with a crude patch: a gray shark, jaws wide open. The Gray Sharks.
The one in front, a man with a scar that pulled his lip into a permanent sneer, spat on the ground between them. "Well, look what the tide washed in," he said, his voice a low rasp. "The Vipers are gittin' bold. Or stupid. You're swimmin' in our waters now."
Gerhart stopped, his broad shoulders tensing. He didn't reach for his truncheon, but his hand hovered near it. "Fuck off, Shark," he growled, the words flat and final. "This has always been our patch. You're the ones who are lost."
The scarred man's sneer widened. "New management. The rules have changed. You pay a toll to walk here now." His eyes flicked to Lutz. "Or we take it from your pretty new boy."
The tension snapped.
"Wrong answer," Gerhart snarled, and the world exploded into violence.
Gerhart was a force of nature. He didn't wait for them to charge. He launched himself forward, his truncheon a blur. It connected with the first Shark's knee with a sound like a dry branch snapping. He screamed in pain for a moment, dazzled, but quickly snapped back , him and other gray shark were onto Gerhart instantly. One wrapped his arms around Gerhart from behind, pinning his massive arms, while the leader, the scarred man, began driving brutal, short punches into Gerhart's ribs.
The third Shark, a younger man with hungry eyes and a thin, cruel mouth, pulled a knife from his belt. He ignored the main fight and circled straight toward Lutz. "Gonna open you up, little Viper," he hissed, the blade glinting dully in the foggy light. "Make an example out of you."
A cold, primal fear seized Lutz. This wasn't a threat. This was a death sentence. The knife made it real. His mind, the part that was Andrei, froze in sheer terror. But Lutz's instincts—the survival code of the streets—screamed one command: RUN.
He turned and sprinted back down the alley.
The Shark's laughter echoed behind him. "Run, you little shit! I love a hunt!"
Lutz's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of panic. The Shark's footsteps pounded close behind. He wasn't faster, but he was more desperate. He ducked under a line of sodden laundry, vaulted a low wall into a parallel alley, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. The sounds of Gerhart's fight faded, replaced by the pounding of his own blood in his ears.
He burst into a narrower, filthier alley that served the back entrances of a butcher and a chandler. The ground was slick with a foul mixture of animal fat, blood, and runoff. It was a dead end. He was trapped.
The Shark skidded to a halt at the alley's entrance, grinning, his chest heaving. "Nowhere to run now, rat." He advanced slowly, savoring the moment, the knife held low and ready.
Lutz backed up until he felt the cold, greasy stone of the wall behind him. His eyes darted around, searching for anything, a weapon, a way out. They landed on a wooden bucket filled with reddish-brown water and lumps of offal next to the butcher's door.
As the Shark lunged, Lutz didn't try to dodge the blade. Instead, he kicked the bucket with all his strength. A wave of bloody water, entrails, and bone fragments sloshed across the cobblestones directly into the Shark's path.
The man's feet shot out from under him. He landed on his back with a sickening crunch, the air driven from his lungs in a whoosh. His head snapped back against the stone. The knife clattered from his hand, skittering away into the filth.
The Shark lay there, stunned, groaning, trying to push himself up. Dazed, but not out. His eyes found Lutz, and the daze was replaced by pure, unadulterated hate. He started to rise, a guttural curse on his lips.
In that instant, Lutz knew. If this man got up, he was dead. There were no more tricks. It was him or me.
Driven by a surge of terror and instinct, he scrambled for the knife. His fingers closed around the hilt. It felt alien and heavy. The Shark was on his hands and knees now, shaking his head, focusing on Lutz with murderous intent.
Lutz didn't think. He lunged forward and drove the blade into the man's side, just below the ribs.
The Shark gasped, his eyes widening in shock. He looked down at the knife handle protruding from his body, then back up at Lutz with an expression of utter disbelief. He choked, a bubble of blood forming on his lips, and collapsed face-first into the muck.
Lutz stared, his own breath caught in his throat. The man twitched once, then was still. The alley was silent except for the drip of water and Lutz's own ragged panting.
He didn't know how long he stood there. It could have been a second or a minute. The world had narrowed to the body and the blood slowly seeping into the dirty water around it.
A groan from the main alley snapped him back. Gerhart.
The knife. He couldn't leave it. With a trembling hand, he wrenched it free, wiping the blade clean on his own filthy trousers. He stumbled back the way he came, the weapon feeling like a lead weight in his hand.
The scene in the main alley had changed. One Shark was now down, but the leader was still standing, and he had Gerhart in trouble. Gerhart was on his knees, one arm hanging uselessly, his face a mask of blood. The scarred Shark was circling him, a knife in his own hand now.
"I'm gonna turn you into fucking porridge," the Shark leader spat.
Lutz moved without a sound. All the fear, the panic, the horror of what he'd just done, channeled into a single, silent action. He came up behind the Shark leader and, mimicking the man's own low stance, plunged the knife into his kidney.
The man screamed, a high-pitched, animal sound of agony. He arched backward, his eyes rolling back in his head. Gerhart, seeing the opening, surged up with a final burst of strength and drove his own head forward into the man's face. There was a wet crunch. The Shark leader dropped like a sack of stones.
Silence descended, broken only by the moans of the injured and the sound of Gerhart's labored breathing. He looked at Lutz, his one good eye taking in the blood-spattered clothes, the wild look, and the knife still clutched in his hand.
"The other one?" Gerhart grunted, spitting a glob of blood onto the cobblestones.
Lutz just nodded, his throat too tight to form words.
A grim, bloody smile spread across Gerhart's face. "Good. First one's the hardest." He pushed himself to his feet, wincing in pain. "Now we've got a real fucking problem." He gestured to the bodies. "Help me get this garbage out of the street before the watch comes. The Sharks will be howling for blood after this."
As they dragged the two corpses into a stinking recess between two warehouses, Lutz felt nothing but a cold, hollow emptiness. He had crossed a line from which there was no return. He was no longer just a debtor, or even a thief.
He was a killer. And the harbor had just gotten a whole lot more dangerous.
The cleanup was a grim, silent ballet. Gerhart, clutching his ribs with one hand, directed with grunts and gestures. The Shark with the shattered knee was dragged into a deep shadow, where Gerhart ended his suffering with a brutal, efficient twist of the neck. Lutz watched, his stomach churning, understanding this too was a lesson.
As they rolled the two dead Sharks toward the oily water of a deserted wharf, weights tied to their ankles with rope stolen from the chandler's, Gerhart's eyes fell on the knife still clutched in Lutz's white-knuckled hand.
"You earned that," Gerhart grunted, his voice ragged with pain. "Your first kill's trophy. Keep it hidden, but keep it. Reminds you what you're capable of." He turned back to the grisly task, leaving Lutz staring at the blade. It didn't feel like a trophy. It felt like a brand.
The cleanup was a grim, silent ballet. Gerhart, clutching his ribs with one hand, directed with grunts and gestures. The Shark with the shattered knee was dragged into a deep shadow, where Gerhart ended his suffering with a brutal, efficient twist of the neck. Lutz watched, his stomach churning, understanding this too was a lesson.
As they rolled the two dead Sharks toward the oily water of a deserted wharf, weights tied to their ankles with rope stolen from the chandler's, Gerhart's eyes fell on the knife still clutched in Lutz's white-knuckled hand.
The return to the warehouse was like entering a different world. The usual low murmur of activity died the moment they stepped inside. All eyes were on them: on Gerhart, leaning heavily on Lutz, his face a mask of dried blood, and on Lutz himself, his clothes stained and his face pale with shock and filth.
They went straight to the Baron's office. Rudel and Karl were already there. Rudel's usual sneer vanished as he took in the scene. Karl's gaze, sharp and analytical, flicked from Gerhart's wounds to the blood on Lutz's shirt, finally settling on the foreign knife tucked into his belt.
Gerhart didn't sit. He leaned on the desk, his breath shallow. "Gray Sharks. Three of them. Ambushed us in the alley off Wharf Street."
The Baron's expression was granite. "And?"
"Lutz here," Gerhart nodded sideways, "he played one of the bastards. Lured him off, put him down. Came back and stuck the leader in the kidney just as he was about to finish me. Saved my life. We dumped all three in the deep channel."
A heavy silence filled the room. Rudel looked at Lutz as if seeing him for the first time, a flicker of something that might have been respect in his eyes. Karl allowed himself a thin, cold smile.
The Baron leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Three Sharks, for the price of your pride and a few bruises, Gerhart?" A slow, calculating smile spread across his face. "That's not a problem. That's an excellent return on an investment." His flinty eyes shifted to Lutz. "It seems you understand the language of these streets, violence. Good."
The Baron's verdict was swift. "Gerhart, see the bone-setter. Lutz," he paused, "you've earned a place under this roof, not in a closet. You'll bunk with the others. You'll continue your duties, But know this—your value has been noted."
It wasn't a promotion to high-stakes missions. It was something more fundamental: a promotion to personhood within the gang. He was no longer disposable.
Word spread through the warehouse like a current. As Lutz was shown to a narrow bunk in a room lined with them, the atmosphere was different. The muttered jabs and cold shoulders were gone. He received silent nods.
'From a closet to a bunk. Luxury. Next thing you know, they'll be offering me a pillow. Probably stuffed with the hopes and dreams of our clients.' Lutz said to himself.
The grizzled Viper named Henrik tossed him a clean, if ragged, blanket. "The first one sits heavy," the man said, his voice low. "It means you've got a conscience. Don't lose it, but don't let it get you killed either."
At the evening meal, his bowl was filled to the brim without a sneer. He was now one of them.
Later, lying on his bunk, Lutz stared at the rough wooden planks above him. The knife was hidden beneath the thin mattress, a cold secret against the straw. The respect of these violent men was a palpable thing, a shield against the daily fear. But it was a shield forged in a fire that had scorched his soul. The moment of the killing played out behind his lids—not as a triumph, but as a terrifying threshold he had crossed forever. He was a killer, and this was his family. The thought brought no comfort, only a cold, hollow certainty.
The phantom sensation of the knife entering flesh replaying in his mind. The horror was there, a cold stone in his gut. Andrei's ghost was screaming, trapped in a nightmare of its own making.
But beneath the shock and the guilt, another thought, cold and sharp as the blade under his mattress, began to surface. It was the part of him that was pure Lutz Fischer, the survivor.
He hadn't won through brute strength. He'd been smarter. He'd used the alley, the filth, the butcher's scraps. He'd turned the Shark's aggression against him. He'd assessed the situation with Gerhart and chosen the perfect moment to strike—not as a hero, but as a tactician. He hadn't just killed a man; he'd executed a plan.
The Baron was right. He understood the final argument of the streets. But more than that, he understood how to win it without losing his own life in the process. In that alley, his mind had proven to be a deadlier weapon than any knife.
The thought was a dangerous comfort, a flicker of pride in the darkness. He had done a terrible thing. But he had done it well. And in this world, that was the only currency that truly mattered.