The old hideout was too quiet.
The familiar stench of mold and rotting wood filled Morgan's nose as she pushed open the warped door. The floorboards creaked under her boots, each step echoing faintly through the hollow space. Dust hung heavy in the air, disturbed by her movement, curling like pale ghosts around the shafts of light that seeped through broken windows.
This place used to be alive with whispers, laughter, and the clinking of stolen coins. Now it was nothing but silence and the faint rustle of rats beneath the floor.
Morgan's eyes swept the dark corners of the room, alert.
"Big Rat?" she called softly — out of habit more than hope.
No answer.
Her gaze fell on a shivering figure tucked behind a pile of crates — a boy, no older than fifteen, dirt-streaked and thin. He froze when her eyes met his, clutching a cracked tin cup like it was a weapon.
Morgan crouched, keeping her tone even.
"It's me. Morgan."
Recognition flickered in the boy's eyes. He hesitated, then relaxed slightly, his bony shoulders lowering.
"Where's Big Rat?" she asked. "And the others?"
The boy's lips trembled. "They… they left three days ago. Said they got a big job from one of the merchants. Told me to stay behind 'cause I'm too small to fight." He sniffled, rubbing his dirty sleeve across his nose. "They never came back."
Morgan's expression barely changed, but her chest tightened.
Big Rat wasn't the type to go silent. If something had gone wrong, the city's underbelly would already be buzzing with whispers.
"Do you know which merchant?" she asked.
The boy shook his head, then hesitated. "It's the same one you were spying on before… the fat man with gold rings."
So it was that merchant after all. Morgan exhaled quietly and stood. "Stay here," she said. "Don't leave until I come back."
The child nodded quickly, eyes wide. Morgan turned and left, stepping out into the narrow alleys of the capital.
The city was still waking up — smoke curling from chimney stacks, the smell of bread mixing with sewage. Morgan pulled her hood low and blended with the early crowd. Her steps were measured, unhurried, like any common laborer's. But her eyes missed nothing.
She followed the familiar path toward the merchant's warehouse district — a cluster of stone buildings guarded by hired muscle. The man in question, was known for his greed and ostentation. A minor figure compared to the nobles, but rich enough to be worth robbing.
Big Rat had planned to ambush him. If the gang was gone, it meant the plan failed.
Morgan found a perch atop a crumbling wall overlooking the merchant's courtyard. Her eyes narrowed as she slipped a small whisper of power through her veins.
The mist stirred around her palm — soft and luminous — then scattered into tiny motes of light. Within moments, a handful of misty moths fluttered from her fingertips, their wings translucent and glimmering faintly in the sunlight.
"Let's see," she murmured.
The moths drifted forward, flitting through open windows and under wagons. Morgan closed her eyes, extending her senses — not quite seeing through them, but feeling their presence, the shifting of air and faint vibration of space. It was an eerie awareness, like tasting the shape of the world around her.
Her range was still limited — a few dozen meters at best — but it was enough.
She guided one moth through a cracked window, brushing past a guard's boot. Inside, voices murmured. She couldn't make out words clearly, but tone carried meaning — sharp, confident, laughing. There was no fear in those voices.
The merchant was alive. Relaxed. Triumphant.
Morgan frowned.
She listened longer, swapping her moths one by one before they dissolved into faint wisps of mist. Then, she retreated and waited. Patience had always been her weapon.
By evening, she confirmed her suspicion. That merchant had indeed been the target — and he'd known of Big Rat's ambush beforehand.
Another gang under the merchant's employ had joined him that same night. They'd waited in the dark, slaughtering Big Rat's crew before they could even strike.
But that wasn't the part that bothered her.
The other gang didn't move without reason. Someone had paid them. Someone who knew Big Rat's plan — and his schedule.
A betrayal from within.
Morgan exhaled slowly, standing from her hiding spot. The faint ache in her chest wasn't grief; it was irritation — the kind that came from wasted effort and human stupidity.
"Fool," she whispered to the empty air. "You should've known better."
When she returned to the base, dusk had fallen. A handful of children were gathered around a small fire built from broken crates. Their faces were hollow and wary — survivors, like her. The same boy from earlier ran up when he saw her.
"Miss, You're back! Did you find them?"
Morgan shook her head. "They're not coming back."
The silence that followed was heavy. Some of the children lowered their heads, a few wiped their eyes. One muttered, "We got nowhere to go…"
Morgan studied them quietly. A group of forgotten children, trained to run messages, pickpocket, and watch corners. The little rats, Big Rat had called them — his eyes and ears in the alleys.
They were small, weak, but useful.
"Listen," Morgan said finally, her tone calm but firm. "Gather everyone you can find. Anyone who worked under Big Rat, tell them to come here tomorrow night. I'll take care of you until we decide what's next."
The children exchanged uncertain glances, but something in her tone carried weight. One by one, they nodded and scattered into the night.
Morgan remained behind, staring at the dying fire. She didn't care about loyalty or vengeance. But she did hate loose ends — and Big Rat's death had left many.
The next morning, she went to the tavern.
It was the same place where Big Rat often drank and met clients — a dim, narrow building tucked between two butcher stalls. The signboard still hung crooked, the smell of stale ale leaking into the street.
Inside, the air was thick and heavy. The tavern owner, a balding man in his forties, was cleaning mugs behind the counter. He looked up as Morgan entered, his expression flickering briefly before settling into forced calm.
"Morgan," he greeted cautiously. "Didn't expect to see you."
"Seems like no one expected a lot of things," she replied evenly, taking a seat at the counter. "Big Rat's dead."
He said nothing. Just continued wiping a mug that was already clean.
"I heard you didn't lose much," she added, her voice soft. "Your tavern's untouched. The guards didn't even bother raiding this place. Odd, isn't it?"
The man's hand paused for a heartbeat, then resumed moving. "Guess I was lucky."
Morgan tilted her head. "Luck doesn't smell like foreknowledge."
The tavern fell silent. Only the creak of old wood and the faint hum of the street outside filled the space between them.
Then the owner sighed and set the mug down. "You always were sharp, girl." His voice dropped low. "Yeah. I knew what was coming. I didn't warn them."
Morgan said nothing. Her gaze didn't waver.
"I owed Big Rat nothing," the man continued, bitterness seeping into his tone. "He took everything from me. My wife—" He stopped, jaw tightening. "You know what he did to her?"
Morgan didn't answer. She didn't need to.
"She was my world," he said quietly. "He used her like she was nothing. For months. And when I found out, it was too late. She'd already hung herself. You think I'd just let that go?"
He laughed, a hollow sound. "No. I waited. Planned. When that merchant came to me asking for help finding muscle to deal with Big Rat's ambush, I gave him the name of the Iron Fangs myself. The rest was easy."
Morgan leaned back slightly, studying him. There was no guilt in his voice. Only quiet satisfaction.
"So that's it," she murmured. "Your revenge."
He nodded. "And I don't regret it."
They sat in silence for a while. The man poured himself a drink and downed it in one go. His eyes were dull, but not defeated.
When he finally spoke again, his tone was different — cautious, thoughtful.
"Listen, Morgan. I don't care what you plan to do, but I'll give you a word of advice. Big Rat's fall wasn't just my doing. Someone bigger saw profit in his end."
Morgan's eyes narrowed. "Who?"
He gave a small, bitter smile, glancing toward the tavern's small window. Outside, the church bell began to ring in the distance — solemn and slow, cutting through the air like a warning.
"You can figure that out yourself," he said quietly. "You're clever enough."
Morgan's gaze followed his. The sound of the bell lingered — cold and deliberate.
The church. Of course.
She stood, pulling her hood up again. "You've made your peace," she said. "I won't disturb it."
The tavern owner nodded, relief flickering across his face. "If you're smart, you'll stay out of the mess that's coming."
Morgan didn't reply. She left the tavern without another word.
By nightfall, she returned to the hideout. The children were there, gathered in a loose circle, waiting. Their eyes lit up when she entered — not with joy, but recognition of a new figure to cling to in the chaos.
Morgan looked at them — a dozen hungry, frightened faces — and for the first time in days, felt a faint sense of direction.
Big Rat was gone. The streets had shifted. But chaos always left room for those who adapted quickly enough.
"You all came," she said quietly. "Good."
The fire flickered across her face as she looked at them — and for a moment, she thought of her past life. Of cubicles, concrete buildings, and a world that devoured the weak just as mercilessly as this one.
Different world. Same rules.
She straightened and spoke clearly, her tone carrying quiet command.
"From now on, you'll listen to me. I'll give you food, work, and safety. In return, you'll obey orders. No questions."
The children nodded slowly, uncertain but willing.
Morgan glanced toward the window — the faint glow of the church's tower visible in the distance, its bell still echoing faintly across the night.
A faint smile tugged at her lips.
"Let's begin."