The sky above New Taiping stretched wide and endless, a pure blue that promised calm, yet the city below was anything but. It breathed like a living creature, loud and restless, never pausing.
Voices rose and collided in a constant hum. Merchants shouted prices over the din, customers bargained fiercely, children darted between stalls, laughter trailing behind them. Footsteps clattered against the worn stone, carriages rattled over streets, and the scent of roasted meats and fresh bread floated through the air. The city never slept, never waited.
A faded sign hung above a large building near the market's center, the letters worn but still legible:
WELCOME TO NEW TAIPING'S LARGEST MARKET
Stalls lined the streets beneath it like a colorful tide. Fabrics in every hue fluttered in the breeze, stacked on wooden frames or draped over barrels.
"Dragon silk! Finest in New Taiping!" a merchant shouted, waving a fan to stir the air. His stall overflowed with neatly folded cloth, though sweat darkened his collar from the effort of haggling.
"You sell lies!" barked the stall beside him. "Stop tricking people!"
The merchant froze, shoulders sagging, his words swallowed by the murmurs of the crowd. Anyone watching could tell he'd been struggling for sales, but he straightened slightly when he noticed a figure approaching.
A young man, hooded and cloaked, moved with deliberate speed, eyes fixed forward, weaving through the crowd like he belonged to another world.
The merchant glanced left, then right, then ducked into his cluttered shop. Fabric covered every shelf, spilling onto the floor. His hand slid toward a bookshelf in the back—its records long abandoned, a relic of the past.
He pulled the last book from the third shelf and tilted it. Silently, the wall beside him slid open, disappearing into itself.
Behind it, a hidden chamber waited. A small circular gazebo sat at its center, water flowing gently around it. Stone paths curved inward, framing a private garden untouched by the chaos outside.
The merchant stepped inside, seated himself, and poured tea into two cups. One remained untouched, steam curling upward as if awaiting company.
A soft click echoed behind him. The cloaked figure had entered. He lowered his hood and sat opposite the merchant, placing a dark pistol on the table with deliberate care. One hand drifted to his left index finger, rubbing the ring there slowly, almost absently, like a restless animal.
"Mr. Flynn," the merchant said, swallowing. "I told you—I still can't get inside the church. I sell robes to them, yes, but the inner court… that is locked to outsiders."
Flynn's fingers tapped lightly on the table. His eyes studied the merchant, then drifted to the tea cup. He lifted it carefully, smelling the warmth before taking a slow sip.
"I know," he said, voice calm, almost soft. "If I can't get in, I'll do it myself. Eight months… no leads. And I still feel them hunting me."
The merchant shook his head, worry etched into his face. "Be careful, Flynn."
"I know."
Flynn set the cup down, stood, and glanced toward the merchant. "Take care of Gran for me."
"I will," came the quiet reply.
He tucked the pistol into his cloak and left, vanishing into the streets without a backward glance.
---
The city beyond the market was alive with sound. Carriages rattled over stone. Coffee shops buzzed with voices. Smoke curled into the air alongside the scent of baked bread, roasted meats, and fresh coffee.
Flynn paused before an old house nestled between newer buildings. Its walls were weathered, untouched by renovation, a stubborn relic against time.
The hallway had no door.
"Hey, mister—welcome."
Flynn turned to see Miss Bretta holding a folded letter. She stood with an effortless confidence, radiant, her presence enough to make even the bustling streets fade into the background.
"The mailman dropped this for you," she said, handing it over. "It's from Gran."
He took the letter, glancing at her briefly before looking away. "Thank you, Bretta ma'am. I'll read it."
Her smile was subtle but genuine. "I've told you before—don't call me that. And… come over for dinner sometime. You're welcome."
"Thanks," he muttered, retreating up the stairs.
On the third floor, he searched for the right key, unlocking his door with a creak. Inside, the apartment was sparse—a narrow bed, a table, a chair, a small kitchen, a simple toilet. Cracked walls told stories of long neglect, but it was enough.
Two letters lay on the table beside his pistol. He picked up the first.
" Dear Mr. Flynn,
You've not been available for work for some days now. This mail is to inform you about your appointment, which may be terminated by Sunday if you don't appear. My Boss doesn't tolerate lazy attitudes. See you on site before Friday if you wish to keep your job.
Yours faithfully,
George Omen"
He frowned, crumpling slightly inside. Work felt meaningless against the weight pressing down on him.
The second letter, though, made him pause.
"My pretty boy,
Merchant Ban is taking care of me now. I know you forced him at first, but we are best buddies. His family is friendly. Don't worry too much. Be careful of those pursuing you. Remember to hold on to life; don't let the sacrifice of your friend be in vain. I'll keep praying to the Sky Goddess.
To my pretty boy,
Flynn"
Tears pricked his eyes before he noticed. He wiped them away, folding the letter carefully, placing it beside his pillow with reverence.
Time passed too quickly. Dinner would come soon. He muttered to himself, trying to avoid thinking about Bretta, about Gran, about the relentless pursuit closing in.
---
Voices drifted up the stairs. Heavy footsteps, low murmurs.
"Looking for a young man?" a man called.
Bretta shook her head, studying the portrait offered. "No. Haven't seen him."
"A criminal," another voice snapped.
Flynn froze. His heart raced. He was upstairs. They were here.
"Check upstairs," the first man ordered. Heavy boots climbed step by step.
Flynn's instincts screamed. He stepped back, eyes darting.
A voice whispered, soft, behind him. "Flynn… are you scared?"
He spun around.
"Miss Bretta—?"
She was already there, close, steady. Before he could act, a sharp pain exploded at the back of his head.
The world tilted violently.
He fell, cradled in strong arms, sinking into darkness.
---
The city outside continued, oblivious. Carriages rattled, vendors shouted, and the sun dipped slowly toward the horizon. But for Flynn, everything had narrowed to a single moment—the sound of his own heartbeat, the cold touch of fear, and the firm, protective arms that held him safe, if only for now.