The irony was so thick Lutz could have carved it with Jhin's stiletto. He stood in the dim light that illuminated his bunk, the scent of ozone and warm metal still clinging to the man, and listened as his handler laid out the very operation he had already executed to perfection.
"The barrister," Karl said, his voice a low, focused hum. "Edelmann. We've had our eyes on him. Word is he keeps a ledger. Not of his legitimate cases. A private one. Names, payments, cases disappeared." Karl's eyes, like banked coals, glowed with a predatory interest. "I want it. It's more valuable than a chest of Hammers. It's a key to a dozen locks in this city."
Lutz kept his face a mask of neutral concentration, the same expression he'd worn when listening to lectures on Gargas verb conjugations. Inside, a cold, mirthless laugh echoed.
"Understood," Lutz replied, his voice even.
Karl nodded, a flicker of approval in his gaze. "Do the reconnaissance. Plan the approach. I want that ledger on my desk within forty-eight hours. This isn't a collection; it's an extraction. Clean and quiet."
"Clean and quiet," Lutz echoed, the words tasting like ash.
An hour later, he was a ghost moving through the early evening fog. The plan was simple in its absurdity: he had to pretend to work. He would spend the night appearing to case Barrister Edelmann's home, creating a plausible timeline of effort to present to Karl tomorrow when he "successfully" produced the ledger. It was a pantomime of competence, a dance he had to perform for an audience of one.
He took a circuitous route, his senses cataloging the night. The fog muffled sound and softened light, transforming the city into a series of isolated vignettes. He was passing a narrow alleyway that reeked of spoiled fish and stagnant water when the sounds registered not as background noise, but as a distinct, struggling rhythm.
He paused, melting into the deeper shadows of a doorway. Peering into the gloom, he saw them: two large, coarse-looking men had a woman pinned against the brick wall. One had his hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her cries, while the other was roughly tearing at the collar of her dress.
"—just hold still, bitch," one of them grunted. "We're just having a bit of fun."
Lutz felt nothing. No surge of heroic fury, no burning sense of injustice. He felt… an assessment. Two targets. Low threat. An interruption to his scheduled pantomime. A variable.
And yet, his feet were already moving.
It wasn't a decision born of morality, that vestigial organ he was sure had died with Silvia. It was something else, something deeper and more instinctual. A rejection. A refusal to let the world be only about the Baron's calculus, Karl's cold fire, and his own slow-burning revenge. This was messy, pointless, and offered no profit. But it was a line, however faint, between what he was becoming and the utter annihilation of anything resembling a choice, it was Andrei's remaining humanity.
He pulled the neck of his dark tunic up over his nose and mouth, a makeshift mask. Then he stepped into the alley.
He moved not with the brute force of Rudel, but with the terrifying economy of the Marauder. The first man, the one tearing at the dress, heard a soft scuff behind him and started to turn. He never completed the motion. Lutz's foot swept his legs out from under him with precise, brutal efficiency. As the man fell, Lutz drove his knee into the man's ribs, hearing a satisfying crackle of cartilage. The man gasped, air exploding from his lungs, and crumpled, writhing.
The second man, startled, released the woman and fumbled for a cudgel at his belt. "You little—!"
Lutz didn't let him finish. He closed the distance in a blur, his body a weapon honed by Gerhart's lessons and refined by potion. He ducked under a wild swing, the air whistling where his head had been. His own hands were a flurry of motion—a sharp jab to the man's throat that choked off his cry, a twisting grip that forced the cudgel from his grasp, a swift, breaking blow to his elbow.
The man staggered back, eyes wide with pain and shock. He saw death in Lutz's gray-blue eyes, the only part of his face visible above the cloth. He turned to flee, but Lutz was already there. The man's flight was a pathetic, stumbling thing. In that moment, the cool detachment that had guided Lutz's hands vanished, replaced by a sudden, icy flood of association.
It wasn't a conscious thought. It was a reflex, a pattern etched into his muscle memory by trauma and survival. As the man turned, Lutz's hands found the twin hilts of his throwing knives. In one continuous, fluid motion, he lunged forward and drove them home, not into the man's back, but up and into his face as he glanced back in terror.
The strikes were perfectly placed. Twin points of steel sinking deep into the orbits of his eyes.
The man made a wet, gurgling sound and dropped like a sack of stones, his body twitching once before falling still.
Silence descended, broken only by the ragged, terrified breaths of the woman and the faint drip of water from a broken gutter. Lutz stood over the body, his own breath steady. He looked at his hands, at the knives, then at the dead man. There was no triumph. This is the shape my violence takes.
He pulled the knives free, wiping them clean on the dead man's tunic before sheathing them. He turned to the woman. She was pressed against the wall, her dress torn, her hands clutching her throat, her eyes wide pools of terror fixed on him.
For a second, they just stared at each other, the killer and the saved, bound by a moment of brutal grace. Then, Lutz gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
"Have a good night," he said, his voice muffled by the cloth.
The words were so absurd, so utterly disconnected from the scene of carnage, that the woman flinched as if struck. He didn't wait for a response. He turned and fled the alley, leaving the one living man moaning in the filth and the woman shaking in the shadows.
He moved quickly, slipping from one pool of darkness to the next, his heart rate only now beginning to climb. He had to get away from there. He cut through a narrow, enclosed courtyard, planning to loop back towards the Merchant Quarter and his fabricated mission.
It was then that he heard it—the crisp, synchronized tread of booted feet on cobblestones. Not the lazy shuffle of the city watch, but the disciplined, mechanical step of the Church of Steam's patrols.
He froze, pressing himself into a recessed doorway. A trio of figures marched into view at the end of the courtyard, blocking his exit. They wore the dark beige greatcoats of the Church, brass buttons gleaming in the faint gaslight. Their leader carried a lantern that emitted a stark, white beam, sweeping methodically across the ground.
Lutz's mind raced. They were between him and his route. To go back was to risk running into anyone investigating the alley. He was trapped.
The beam of light swept across the courtyard, inches from his feet. He held his breath, forcing his body into absolute stillness, becoming just another part of the shadowed architecture. The patrol paused, the leader scanning the area.
"Thought I heard something," one of them said, his voice young and eager.
"Rats," the leader replied, his voice bored. "This whole district is infested. Keep moving. Deacon Noire wants the Upper Anchor sweep completed before midnight."
The beam of light moved on. The synchronized footsteps began again, fading as the patrol moved down the adjoining street. Lutz waited a full minute in the deafening silence, then slipped from his hiding place and moved in the opposite direction, his path altered.
The encounter had scraped his nerves raw. The Church's presence was no longer an abstract threat in a report; it was a tangible, searching force, its gears already turning, its lanterns probing the fog he used as a shield.
Shaking off the adrenaline, he forced himself to continue the charade. He spent the next two hours in the Upper Anchor district, the "good part of town." He walked the clean, gas-lit streets, his senses extended. He noted the houses with the most ornate iron fences, the ones with visible alarm wires, the ones that employed private watchmen. His Thief's nose hummed, a faint psychic pull from behind certain walls hinting at paintings, silver, or hidden safes. He was a predator casing new hunting grounds, filing away the vulnerabilities of the wealthy and complacent for a future date. It was productive, but it felt hollow after the alley. This was planning for a future that felt increasingly uncertain.
Finally, as the moon began its descent, he turned back towards the Salt-Weep district and the Viper's warehouse. He slipped inside, the familiar smells of mildew, sweat, and stolen goods a perverse comfort. The dice players were gone, replaced by the soft snores of sleeping gang members.
He went to his bunk, the weight of the night pressing down on him. He didn't look at the hidden packet containing the ledger. He simply pulled off his boots, lay down on the thin mattress, and stared at the grimy ceiling.
The face of the terrified woman superimposed itself over the image of the dead man with the knives in his eyes. Karl's assignment, the Church's patrol, the future hits he'd just scouted—it all swirled together in a chaotic mess. He had successfully deceived his boss, evaded the Church, and saved a life through murder. He was playing his part, the rising star in the Vipers, the cunning Marauder, little did they know, he would prove to be their demise, soon enough.
But as he closed his eyes, the only thing he was certain of was the cold, sharp memory of steel grating against bone, and the echo of his own voice, polite and monstrous in the dark.
"Have a good night."
The next day
Dawn bled a pale, sickly light through the grime-caked windows of the warehouse. Lutz had slept the shallow, restless sleep of a soldier in a war zone, his dreams a fragmented montage of staring eyes and the scent of ozone. He woke not to a sense of renewal, but to the familiar weight of calculation. The performance was not over; it was merely entering its next act.
He retrieved the waxed canvas packet from its hiding place. The ledger within felt no different than it had days ago—a bundle of paper, a collection of secrets. Yet its meaning had transformed entirely. It was no longer a personal asset, a key to future leverage. Now, it was a prop, the central piece of evidence in the lie he was about to solidify.
He found Karl in his office, the room already smelling of hot metal and strong, black tea. Karl was studying a complex schematic of the docklands, his long, predatory fingers tracing lines of potential conflict and control. He looked up as Lutz entered, his eyes—those banked coals—registering no surprise, only assessment.
"Fischer," he said, his voice a low hum. "Early. Report."
Lutz said nothing. He simply stepped forward and placed the ledger on the desk, the soft thud of leather on wood the only sound in the room.
Karl's gaze dropped to the book. For a long moment, he was perfectly still. Then, one finger extended, hooking the cover and flipping it open. His eyes scanned a random page, taking in the precise script, the lists of names, the amounts of coin. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Lutz could feel the seconds ticking by, each one a hammer fall on the anvil of his deception.
Finally, Karl looked up. The warmth in his eyes was not affection, but the satisfaction of a master craftsman seeing a complex tool function exactly as designed.
"This is it," Karl stated, not a question. He closed the ledger with a definitive snap. "The Edelmann ledger. Acquired in… less than twelve hours from when I gave the assignment." He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. "Explain."
This was the test. Lutz had prepared for it. His voice was calm, flat, the report of a professional.
"The barrister is arrogant. His security is for show. The locks on his study are good, but not exceptional. The real vulnerability was his rooftop terrace. The door was bolted from the inside, but the bolt was old, the wood warped. A thin blade and pressure were enough. I went in after midnight, found the hidden compartment in his bookshelf, and was out within five minutes. The servant never stirred."
It was a perfect lie, woven from strands of truth. He had cased the terrace. The locks were mediocre. He simply omitted the fact he'd already done the job a week prior.
Karl watched him, his expression unreadable. He didn't smile, but a new, sharper intensity entered his gaze. It was the look a collector gives a newly acquired piece that has just proven to be far more valuable than its appraisal.
"Efficiency," Karl said, the word a benediction and a sentence. "Clean. Quiet. No theatrics, no unnecessary violence. Just… results." He picked up the ledger again, weighing it in his hand as if judging its worth not in secrets, but in the measure of the man who had brought it to him. "This is the product I invest in."
He set the ledger down and steepled his fingers. "Your debt to the Baron. The one hundred Hammers. It is lifted. As of this moment, you owe nothing."
The words should have felt like a physical weight being lifted from his shoulders. They should have brought a surge of freedom, of triumph. Instead, they felt like the removal of a training wheel, a signal that the real, far more dangerous ride was beginning.
"Furthermore," Karl continued, his tone leaving no room for celebration, "you will be moved from the bunk room. There's a small room on the second floor, at the end of the hall. It has a door that locks. It's yours. You'll also receive a standard cut from all missions you undertake from now on. Fifteen percent of the gross value, unless otherwise specified."
Lutz simply nodded. A room of his own. Payment. The trappings of status within the viper's nest. He knew the price of each.
"This isn't freedom, Fischer," Karl said, his voice dropping, the hum now a low, dangerous vibration. He leaned forward, the warmth in his eyes hardening into something absolute, like cooled magma. "Let me be perfectly clear. What this is, is a promotion. From a disposable asset to a strategic one. The Baron doesn't release valuable investments; he leverages them. You have just demonstrated a unique and profitable skill set. That makes you more useful inside this organization than out of it."
He paused, letting the implication hang in the air, as tangible as the ledger between them.
"The world outside these walls is full of… accidents," Karl said softly. "Church patrols that ask the wrong questions. Rival gangs that hold grudges. Loose ends from past jobs that suddenly tighten. It would be a tragedy if, after all you've survived, you were to fall victim to such a random, unfortunate event. Your safety, your continued health, is now intrinsically linked to your presence here, under our protection and our observation. Do you understand the new terms of your employment?"
Lutz met his gaze. There was no fear in his eyes, only a flat, gray-blue acceptance. He saw it all clearly. The lifted debt was not a liberation; it was the cancellation of a simple, quantifiable agreement and its replacement with a far more binding one—an unwritten contract written in the language of mutual threat and utility. He was no longer a debtor; he was a prized possession.
"I understand," Lutz said, his voice devoid of emotion. "The ledger is the product. I am the means of production. It's bad business to break your own tools."
A genuine, sharp smile finally touched Karl's lips. It was not a pleasant sight. "Exactly. Now get out. I have to decide which of these names to pay a visit to first. And get your things moved. I expect you to be ready for your next assignment by tomorrow."
Lutz turned and walked out of the office. He went to the bunk room, and after making sure no one was watching, he stored all the items in his stash into a big sack. Then he made his way up the narrow stairs to the second floor. He found the door at the end of the hall. It was unlocked. The room was small, barely more than a closet, containing a cot, a small table, a chest and a single, high window looking out over the fog-shrouded docks. It was a prison cell with slightly better furniture.
He closed the door behind him and stood in the center of the room, in the silence that was now his.
He took a moment to store his possessions into the chest.
'I should buy a closet to store my clothing as well' Lutz thought. Then he layed on the cot.
The debt was gone. He had a room and the promise of payment. He had everything he had ostensibly been working towards since he'd awakened in this body.
And as he stood there, the only thing he felt was the cold, precise click of the final lock sliding into place.