The morning after the Baron erased fifty Hammers from his debt, the world felt different. The grime of Indaw Harbor seemed a little less oppressive, the weight of the sky not quite as heavy. The number echoed in Lutz's mind, a numerical talisman against despair. He moved through his assigned duties with a focus that felt new. It was no longer just about survival; it was about chipping away at the remaining sum.
His task for the day was simple: collect the weekly "security fees" from a string of shops on the edge of the Salt-Weep district, a task so routine it felt almost mundane. He was alone; Gerhart was occupied with other matters. The Baron's apparent favor had granted him a measure of autonomy, a subtle shift he was still learning to navigate.
He finished with a stubborn chandler, the man's resentment a familiar taste in the air, and decided to cut through the network of alleys behind the fish market to save time. It was a decision born of that new-found, fleeting sense of control.
The stench was overwhelming, a thick miasma of fish guts, brine, and decay that clung to the back of the throat. The cobblestones were slick with offal and dirty water. He was halfway through the narrow, canyon-like alley when a shadow detached itself from a doorway ahead, blocking his path. Another slid out behind him, cutting off his retreat.
Gray Sharks.
There were three of them. The one in front was the same scarred man from the first ambush, he had survived, his lip curled in a vicious sneer. The two behind were new, younger, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and aggression. They all held clubs; crude, heavy things of nailed wood.
"Just look who it is," the scarred Shark rasped. "The Viper's pet weasel, all alone. We been waitin' for this."
Lutz's mind went cold and clear. No banter. No threats. This was an execution. They hadn't followed him; they had been waiting. Someone had talked. Someone knew his route.
He was unarmed. The knife he'd taken was back in the warehouse, a trophy he never carried on simple collections. His eyes scanned the alley: overflowing trash bins, barrels of fish heads, a stack of broken crates. No weapons. No escape.
"Thought you were clever, did ya?" the scarred man took a step forward, hefting his club. "Killin' our boys, you fuck!"
Lutz didn't answer. He backed up until he felt the two behind him close in. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs, but his breathing was steady. He was calculating angles, distances, the slippery footing.
The scarred man lunged. It was a telegraphed, brutal swing meant to cave in his skull. Lutz didn't try to block it. He dropped into a crouch, the club whistling over his head. At the same time, he kicked backwards, his heel connecting hard with the shin of one of the Sharks behind him. The man yelped in pain and stumbled.
It created a half-second of confusion. Lutz used it. He scrambled forward, not away from the leader, but past him, deeper into the alley. He heard a roar of anger and the pounding of footsteps behind him. His only chance was to make it to the other end, where the alley opened onto a slightly broader street.
He didn't make it.
A hand grabbed the back of his jacket, yanking him off balance. He fell hard onto the slick stones, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. He rolled onto his back just as the scarred Shark loomed over him, club raised high for a final, crushing blow.
There was no time to think. Lutz brought his legs up and kicked out wildly, not at the man, but at the nearest barrel. It was full of fish guts and water. The kick was desperate, off-balance, but it was enough. The barrel tipped over with a sickening slosh, spilling a wave of putrid slime across the cobblestones.
The scarred Shark, mid-swing, stepped into the deluge. His foot shot out from under him. He let out a grunt of surprise, his arms flailing, the club flying from his grasp. He landed on his back with a heavy thud, splashing into the filth.
Lutz didn't wait. He scrambled to his feet, slipping and sliding in the muck. The other two Sharks were hesitating, horrified by the stinking mess. He ran.
A searing pain exploded across his left shoulder. One of the younger Sharks had recovered enough to swing his club, catching Lutz a glancing blow. The force of it spun him around, but he kept his feet, the adrenaline burning through the pain. He didn't look back. He stumbled out of the alley and onto the broader street, clutching his throbbing shoulder.
He expected pursuit, but none came. The Sharks had their pride, but chasing a fleeing target into a busier street was bad for business. He half-ran, half-staggered, ignoring the curious glances from passersby. The pain in his shoulder was a hot, sharp ache, and he could feel a warm dampness spreading through his jacket.
He ducked into the doorway of a closed haberdashery, leaning against the cool stone, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
He was alive by mere chance. A kicked barrel. A slippery patch of fish guts. It wasn't cunning or skill; it was blind, stupid luck.
The fifty Hammers felt like a mockery. The debt was a mountain, and he was just a man slipping on the scree at its base. The Gray Sharks weren't just a rival gang; they were a symptom of the world he was trapped in, a world where a moment's lapse, a wrong turn, could be your last. The Baron's ledger meant nothing to a club in a stinking alley.
He pressed his hand against his shoulder, wincing at the pain. It was a shallow cut, maybe a bruise. It would heal. But the lesson was deeper. Autonomy was an illusion. Safety was a lie. He had gotten comfortable, and the harbor had reminded him of his place.
Pushing himself off the wall, he started walking again, his steps more deliberate now. He had to get his shoulder looked at, quietly. And he needed to find out who had given up his route. The ambush hadn't been random. This wasn't over. It was just beginning.
Lutz slipped into the warehouse through a side entrance, his left shoulder burning with a deep, throbbing ache. He kept his right side close to the wall, minimizing the visibility of the dark, damp patch spreading on his jacket. The initial surge of adrenaline had faded, leaving behind a cold, gritty fatigue. He needed to clean the wound, find a bandage, and—
"Fischer."
The voice, a low grunt from the shadows near the tool racks, made him start. Gerhart stepped into the dim light, his eyes immediately dropping to Lutz's hunched posture and the stain on his shoulder.
"Trouble?" Gerhart asked, his tone flat, already knowing the answer.
"Gray Sharks. In the alleys behind the fish market," Lutz said, his voice tighter than he intended. "An ambush."
Gerhart's jaw tightened. "How many?"
"Three. I got away." He left out the part about the fish-guts barrel. Some victories weren't worth describing.
A grim nod. "Lucky. Finn wasn't."
The words didn't register at first. They were just sounds. Then they slammed into him. "Finn?" Lutz repeated, the name feeling stupid on his tongue. "What about Finn?"
Gerhart's gaze was like stone. "Ambushed. On the wharf. An hour ago. They cut his throat and tossed him in the harbor. The boys just fished him out."
The world seemed to tilt. The pain in Lutz's shoulder vanished, replaced by a cold void in his gut. He saw Finn's face—young, eager, annoying, alive. The kid who'd been impressed by the cigar case, who'd grumbled about boring collections. Not a friend. But a fixture. A part of the grim tapestry of this life. Now gone. The image of the Gray Shark leader, the one who'd slipped in the muck, flashed in his mind. This was their response. Their reckoning.
"He's dead?" The question was a formality. A pointless attempt to reject the fact.
Gerhart just looked at him, the answer in his silence. "Karl wants to see you. Now. In the infirmary." He turned and walked away, leaving Lutz standing there, the news settling over him like a shroud.
The "infirmary" was a corner of the warehouse curtained off with stained sheets, containing a cot and a cabinet of rough medical supplies. The air smelled of blood and cheap antiseptic. An older Viper with gnarled hands grunted as Lutz entered, gesturing for him to sit and take off his jacket. The cut wasn't deep, but it was ugly, a swollen, purple gash already bruising spectacularly.
As the man cleaned the wound with a stinging liquid, Lutz barely felt it. His mind was a storm.
Why?
The question echoed, hollow and desperate. Why was he here? Why was he trying so hard to survive in this cesspit? The original Lutz, the body he wore, had chosen the noose over this life. He'd seen the debt, the fear, the hopelessness, and he'd quit. Andrei, the mind inside, had been just as defeated, staring at a future of meaningless struggle and debt in a world that had no place for him. Both of them, in their own ways, had given up.
So why was he—this stitched-together creature of both their despairs—fighting so fiercely? Every day was a calculation, a risk, a new layer of moral filth added to his soul. He had just been ambushed, nearly killed, and a boy who'd looked up to him was now fish food at the bottom of the harbor. For what? To shave numbers off a debt in a ledger owned by a monster? To earn the cold praise of a man who saw him as a useful tool?
The man bandaged his shoulder with rough efficiency. The physical pain was a distant thing.
What is waiting for me at the end of this? he wondered, staring at the grimy warehouse wall. If by some miracle he paid the debt, what then? A lifetime as a Viper? Graduating from collections to outright murder? Becoming like Karl, a man who saw people as kindling? Or like Rudel, a fist without a thought? There was no happy ending here. There was only a spectrum of damnation.
The answer came not as a grand epiphany, but as a cold, stubborn ember in the ashes of his thoughts. It wasn't hope. It wasn't a dream of a better life.
It was spite.
A pure, raw, undiluted refusal to let them win. The Baron, the Sharks, this entire wretched city. The part of him that was Lutz refused to be broken like his predecessor. The part that was Andrei refused to be erased without ever having truly fought. Survival wasn't about a goal anymore. It was the act itself that had become the point. Every breath he took was a victory over the noose, over the despair. Every coin he earned was a bullet fired back at the world that wanted to crush him.
He wanted to live because dying would mean they were right. This wasn't about happiness. It was about defiance.
The curtain rustled. Karl stood there, his sharp features impassive. He glanced at the bandaged shoulder, then at Lutz's face, reading the aftermath of the storm in his eyes.
"The Sharks knew your route," Karl stated, no greeting, no sympathy. It was a cold, hard fact. "They knew Finn's. This was coordinated. Who knew where you would be today?"
Lutz met his gaze, his mind still churning. He ran through the morning. The Baron's meeting. The collection list… His thoughts snagged.
"The list…" Lutz said slowly, piecing it together as he spoke. "I gave the collection list to Silas this morning. He said he needed to check it against his ledger for… 'overlapping interests'." He looked up at Karl, the connection clicking into place with chilling clarity. "But that wasn't it. He was nervous. More nervous than usual. After the shipment fiasco… Finch is ruined. But Silas… he still had to answer to Hass. He needed a way to prove his continued value, or a new patron altogether."
Karl's eyes narrowed, a flicker of intense interest replacing the flat assessment. He remained silent, letting Lutz follow the thread.
"He discovered the Vipers were behind the switched cargo," Lutz continued, the theory solidifying. "He couldn't strike at you, or at me directly without starting a war he couldn't win. But a tip-off to the Gray Sharks… a chance to eliminate the Baron's 'new favorite' and a young Viper in one move…" He let the sentence hang. "It's an offering. A way to curry favor with a rival gang and settle his own score at the same time. The ambush wasn't just a retaliation. It was Silas's audition."
The warehouse infirmary was silent except for the distant sounds of the harbor. Karl stared at Lutz for a long moment, a slow, cold smile finally touching his lips. It was a predator's smile.
"So," Karl murmured, his voice soft as smoke. "The worm didn't just squirm. It tried to bite." He gave a single, sharp nod. "The snitch has a name, and a reason. Good. That makes this simpler."
He turned to leave, then paused, looking back at Lutz. "Finn is dead because of a leak. A problem we will plug. Your survival was fortunate. But luck is not a strategy. We will discuss a new… curriculum for you. After we have settled this account."
He didn't wait for a reply. He turned and left, the curtain falling back into place.
Lutz sat on the cot, the bandage tight around his shoulder. The pain was back, a dull, insistent throb. But it was a reminder. He was alive. Finn was not. Silas had chosen a side.
And Lutz, fueled by nothing more than a desperate, furious spite, was ready to learn how to be a weapon.
The older Viper finished tying off the bandage with a grunt. "Don't get it wet. Don't pick at it. You'll live." He gathered his supplies and left, leaving Lutz sitting on the edge of the cot.
The immediate adrenaline of the ambush and the shock of Finn's death had faded, leaving a hollowed-out exhaustion. But beneath the fatigue, the ember of spite still glowed. Silas. The Sharks. They weren't abstract threats anymore; they were faces, names, reasons. Finn's wide-eyed, stupid face flashed in his mind. A kid who'd probably joined the Vipers for three square meals and a sense of belonging, now floating face-down in the harbor.
A shadow fell across the curtain again. This time, it was Gerhart. He didn't enter, just stood at the entrance, his bulk blocking the light.
"Can you move your arm?" Gerhart grunted.
Lutz rotated his shoulder, wincing at the pull of the bruised muscle. "Enough."
"Good. Get up."
Lutz followed him out of the infirmary corner, across the main floor of the warehouse. Instead of heading towards the offices or the bunks, Gerhart led him to a secluded, cleared-out space behind a towering stack of crates marked with Intisian script. The air here smelled of dust, old wood, and sweat. It was a makeshift training ground. The floor was scarred, and a heavy, sand-filled leather bag hung from a beam, swaying slightly.
"This is where you stop being a liability," Gerhart said, his voice flat. "Karl says you're clever. Clever is good. But clever gets you killed when you're cornered in a stinking alley. Strength keeps you alive." He gestured to Lutz's injured shoulder. "That's your lesson. Learned the hard way."
Lutz said nothing. The man was right.
"First lesson," Gerhart said, stepping closer. "Forget fair. Forget honor. Your only goal is to walk away. See an opening? You take it. Eyes, throat, groin. You hit first, you hit hard, and you don't stop until they're not getting up." He demonstrated a short, brutal palm strike aimed upward at an imaginary chin. "You're not big. You won't win a fistfight. So you don't get into one. You end it before it starts."
For the next hour, Gerhart drilled him. It was basic, brutal, and exhausting even with one good arm. How to put his body weight behind a shove to create space. How to use his elbows and knees at close range. How to break a grip by twisting, not pulling.
"Again," Gerhart would bark, every time Lutz's form slipped or he favored his injured side. "Your enemy won't care if you're hurt. Hurt them worse."
Lutz's muscles burned, and sweat stung the cut on his shoulder. But with each repetition, a shift occurred. The frantic panic he'd felt in the alley began to be replaced by a cold, focused anger. Each practiced strike against the heavy bag was aimed at the scarred face of the Shark leader. Each defensive maneuver was a promise to himself that he wouldn't be the one on the ground next time.
It wasn't about becoming a master fighter. It was about shedding the last vestiges of Andrei's passivity and Lutz's desperation and forging something harder in its place. Gerhart wasn't teaching him to win a duel. He was teaching him to survive a back-alley murder.
Finally, Gerhart called a halt. Lutz was breathing heavily, his good arm trembling with fatigue.
"That's enough for today," Gerhart said, his expression unreadable. "The mind is a weapon. Karl's right about that. But it's a weapon that needs a body to carry it. Don't forget that again."
As Gerhart walked away, Lutz leaned against the cold brick wall, sliding down to sit on the floor. The pain was a dull, full-body ache. But for the first time since he'd stumbled out of that fish-stinking alley, he didn't feel like a victim. He felt like a student. A dangerous, furious student, with a very specific lesson plan in mind. The curriculum had begun.