Night came down like a lid. The warehouse's lamps were low; the ledger slept under its rain‑colored cloth, tucked in the satchel by Derrigan's pallet. Minji breathed the kind of even sleep that comes after fever; Haeun had curled the wooden horse into her lap and stared at the window until her lids fell heavy. Outside, the harbor breathed slow—boats rocking, ropes creaking—until the sound of hurried feet on wet planks cut through like a knife.
Seo‑yeon's whisper reached him before the knock: "Someone's here. Two at least." She was already moving, the manifest tucked under her arm like a shield. Derrigan slid from the cot, palms hollow with the ledger's outline. Hana was at the mezzanine with her horn and the paper‑knife ward coiled in a pouch. They had been vigilant, but vigilance was a brittle thing.
Seo‑yeon cracked the gate and let in a shadow that smelled of tobacco and new leather. The man at the pier was no courier this time—he wore a harness of small pouches and a low scapular with an unfamiliar seal stamped in white on the leather. "Keeper of accounts?" he called, voice professional and practiced. "We were asked to retrieve a book under warrant."
"Warrant?" Seo‑yeon's tone was clean and practiced. She pushed a tray of papers forward and let it sound like civility. "Who issued it?"
The man's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Names are proprietary now. We act for collectors. We have directive." He motioned, and three more figures slipped from shadow—lean, quick, men who moved like they expected no one to fight them.
Seo‑yeon's hand flicked a small device; a trip string, a clack of cans, a staged tumble in the alley behind them. It was theater—enough to make one man turn—and it bought seconds. Derrigan moved through the narrow gap she made, ledger close to his chest though he kept his fingers curled to hide its contour. He had a rope in his belt, a spool of wire, and a history in his knuckles. He did not carry a sword, but he knew how to use a dock crate like a battering ram and a bundle of tarps like a net.
The first strike was nearly polite: a man lunged for the satchel where the ledger lay. Derrigan met him with an elbow to the ribs and a twisting drop that sent the attacker into the wood. Seo‑yeon followed with a brutal economy—a forearm into the face, a knee into a thigh—turning the would‑be grab into a scramble. They worked like two halves of a lever: Derrigan moved weight, Seo‑yeon redirected momentum.
Hana's horn clicked once. The paper‑knife ward vibrated in the satchel and released a thin, grating note that crawled along the attackers' heads. One staggered and clutched at his temple; another, eyes wide, flattened against a pile of crates as if trying to hide from sound. The ward was not a prison; it was an irritant that made certain minds misread ledger‑like patterns, making theft sloppy and visible.
Still, the attackers were practiced. A woman with quick hands aimed a smoke tube into the doorway and struck a flare that spat a thin, suffocating cloud. The warehouse filled with choking night smoke and the smell of oil. Someone had intended to drive them out.
Seo‑yeon, thinking two steps ahead, had already set dampened rags in the windows and a curtained false wall that swallowed light. She snuffed the nearest flare with a gloved hand, tearing free a length of rope and flinging it like a net. It snagged a woman's ankle; she fell and dragged a second with her. Derrigan pulled the ledger‑satchel closer, one arm around it, the other sweeping with a recovered plank to knock a boot from under a charging figure.
In the confusion Minji woke, and Haeun's small voice cut through the smoke: "Mister—" She scrambled from the cot, clutching the wooden horse like a talisman. Derrigan's stomach clenched; he shoved a damp cloth at Minji's face and hauled her under a heavy table where the girls could breathe lower, away from the worst of the smoke and sight.
Someone tried the mezzanine ladder. Hana met them with a bite of salt thrown across boots and a quick knot jerk that snagged a cuff. "Down!" she hissed. Her knife of charcoal traced a quick sigil in the air above the ledger's hiding place, not a binding but a reflexive marker—discomfort for those who would pry by measures. The paper‑knife ward flared again, a hot, disagreeable strip across the attackers' sense of assessment. When a man tried to read the satchel by touch, his fingers went numb as if the leather repelled counting.
One of the attackers managed to wrest the satchel free in the chaos—too fast, too practiced. She ran, ducking crates, feet dragging wet rope that clanged like warning bells. Derrigan saw the woman's silhouette cut for the pier, then leap toward a waiting skiff. For a heartbeat the world narrowed: ledger in hands he could not allow to cross the water.
He ran.
The pier was a tangle of ropes and stacked boxes, a choreography Derrigan had practiced all his life. He moved with the ledger's scent in his nose—cedar and copper, a private pull. The thief was an angular shadow with the satchel clenched under her arm, hair slick with harbor spray. A cart creaked between them; a lantern bobbed like a heartbeat. Derrigan took the shortest line, vaulting low over greasy planks, using ropes as swing lines and crates as stepping stones. His breath thinned into a single instrument, each footfall a subtraction. He kept his eyes fixed on the satchel.
The thief turned toward a narrow channel between two barges, thinking speed would make a difference. Derrigan picked a plank, rolled it under his shoulder, and shoved with the weight of his hips. The attacker stumbled, and the satchel flew like a small animal into the air.
For an instant the ledger was a separate being—tumbling, raincloth stretching wide as if to catch the water. It hit the quay with a thud; pages splayed in the wet and a sigil flashed—bright, then gone—like a flare beneath the ink. The attacker dove and clamped a hand over the book.
Derrigan was on her. Hands closed; the rope in his belt flashed; the world was sound, salt, and the edge of panic. The attacker rolled and freed a blade, a glint that promised fast harm. Derrigan used his momentum to drive her into the rail; the blade skittered and fell with a clatter into the water.
At the same moment, Hana came up on the opposite side of the pier, breathless but steady. With a quick, practiced motion she struck the ledger's raincloth with a flat of her palm and spoke a word like closure. The margins answered like shutters closing: the splayed pages snapped together as if an invisible hand had brushed them back into order. The sigil that had flared dimmed, leaving the book moist and shivering but whole.
The thief swore and tried to drag the satchel. Derrigan wrapped his arm about her head and forced her face into the planks, breath hot with salt and effort. Hana's quick loop of silver wire slid around the attacker's wrist and tightened. The struggle ended in a mess of coughing and the soft slap of tie‑cords. The woman would wake with a throbbing ear and memories of having chosen wrong.
Back at the warehouse, Seo‑yeon had held the line. She had sent one attacker sprawling into the harbor with a well‑placed shove and had locked the manifest in a chest with three clever false receipts. The smoke had cleared enough for them to breathe properly; the girls were safe, shivering and wide‑eyed, clutching the wooden horse.
They gathered, counting people and wounds: a split lip on Derrigan, a bruise on Seo‑yeon's forearm, Hana's dark smudge of charcoal and a scraped knuckle. Minji held the ledger's rain‑colored cloth like a blanket, not quite knowing what all the tearing had been about. Derrigan wiped his mouth, tasting salt and the iron tang of adrenaline.
He opened the satchel slowly and felt the ledger like a living animal under his hands—wet at the edges but closed. The margins pulsed faintly; one sigil near the Dock 9 entry glowed briefly, then faded, like a memory taking its breath. He made a quick line in the ledger: Attack repelled; ledger displaced briefly; attacker detained; recommend relocation if pressure increases.
Seo‑yeon looked up at him, panting, eyes bright. "They knew where to hit," she said. "They wanted us distracted—smoke, noise—so they could take the ledger and leave. We can't keep doing this in one place."
Hana sat back on her heels and rubbed her chin. "They were organized. Someone bankrolls these runs. And they brought a binder—looked like he meant to claim the ledger as property, or at least a tool. That will lead to greater offers."
Derrigan wrapped the rain‑colored cloth around the ledger and tucked it beneath his shirt. Minji reached up and stroked the folded fabric like it was a sleeping animal. Haeun clutched the wooden horse to her chest and, for the first time since he'd named her, let a real, unprotected laugh out—small and sharp and human.
The pier's lights held an extra caution after that night. Word spreads fast at the docks—quieter than the official channels, but truer. Someone would take note of the boldness of the raid and the fact the ledger had been fought for and not bought. Derrigan knew the mathematics had changed: keeping required not simply record but movement—relocation, allies, and a willingness to run if necessary.
He stood with Seo‑yeon and Hana as dawn bled over the harbor, ledger tucked like a promise against his ribs. The math had been tested; the ledger had been grabbed and saved, and the price of keeping it had risen. They had won a small victory. The city had marked them as a contested account.