Oswald had little to his name. But he was quick, and when it came down to a fight, he was better than most. A street rat like him had to earn money somehow, and for someone like him, gangwork was a natural choice.

  Backstreets and alleyways had become his battleground. Tonight was no different.

  The air in the alleyway was suffocating. The foul stench of sweat, blood, and stale ale crawled up Oswald’s nose and latched onto his senses. Light from a nearby lantern cast jagged shadows on crumbling brick walls, its glow barely penetrating the darkness.

  Oswald wiped his shortsword clean on a scrap of cloth, the dark smear of blood staining the fabric. His gaze soon dropped to the man crumpled at his feet, bound tightly, his limbs twisted unnaturally as if the cords themselves mocked his efforts.

  The man’s face was grotesquely swollen, one eye completely sealed shut by bruising, while the other flitted wildly. A streak of blood painted his cheek, trailing downward until it disappeared into the shredded remnants of his shirt. It was all the work of Oswald's "companions", though allies of convenience would likely be the more appropriate term. He should've quit while he had the chance.

  One of Oswald's "companions", a burly thug with a tattoo of a Black Hound on his neck, leaned closer to the captive, “tell us who’s runnin’ the whole operation. Ain’t got all night.”

  Another thug, taller and with a jagged scar that bisected his upper lip, chuckled. “Tough little rat, isn’t he? Not too smart, though. Keep actin’ stubborn, and Black Eye here’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget. Not that you’ll live long enough to remember.” He gestured toward Oswald with a lazy flick of his wrist, as if passing him a chore.

  The prisoner wheezed. “I told you, I’m not sayin’ a damn thing. You’ll… you’ll have to kill me first.”

  The scarred thug clicked his tongue, shaking his head with mock pity. “Your funeral,” he sneered. Then, the man stepped aside and smiled, his scar stretching grotesquely as he motioned toward Oswald. “Oi, Black Eye. Let’s see if he’s still got that fire when you’re done with him.”

  Sorry, man. You picked the wrong night for this. Oswald thought to himself, stepping forward.

  “I ain't talkin',” the captive man spat, blood flecking onto Oswald’s boots.

  Dumbass. Oswald thought.

  He crouched slowly, before moving a hand to the strap of the patch over his right eye, working it loose. The faint rustle of leather against his skin was the only sound, filling the alley with a tension so thick it felt as though the air itself was holding its breath. Behind him, the thugs shifted uneasily.

  When the eyepatch came away, Oswald didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

  The man tied before him stiffened instantly, his breath hitching as though an invisible hand had clamped around his throat. The rise and fall of his chest grew increasingly erratic, as if he couldn’t draw enough air.

  A whimper escaped his lips as his body convulsed slightly, jerking against the ropes that held him, the bindings cutting into his skin as though they shared in his torment. He clenched his jaw, but the tremor in his chin betrayed him. The man’s terror was almost physical, radiating from him like a fever, and the thugs around him leaned away instinctively, as though afraid they might catch it.

  “P-please,” the man croaked.

  His cracked lips trembled as his tongue darted out to wet them, but it did little to mask the sheer desperation etched into his features. His good eye darted frantically, searching the narrow alley for an escape that didn’t exist.

  Oswald blinked, then slipped the eyepatch back into place. And that’s that.

  The man crumpled against the ground, his body folding like a discarded marionette. His head hung forward, limp, as though the terror had hollowed him out completely.

  Oswald rose quickly, his cloak trailing behind him. He stepped back, looking over the ring of thugs encircling him.

  Their earlier jeers had withered into silence, the bravado drained from their faces. Some shifted uneasily, glancing at one another, their confidence unraveling thread by thread. The fear radiating from the broken man at Oswald’s feet had seeped into them, sinking its claws deep. Funny how quick they shut up when things get real.

  “Talk,” Oswald said flatly.

  The man wheezed, his voice hoarse and trembling. “I’ll tell you… I’ll tell you everything. Just… don’t look at me again. Don’t make me… feel that again.”

  The silence splintered as the thugs erupted into raucous laughter. One of them clapped his companion on the shoulder, yellowed teeth bared in a crooked grin. “Ain’t no one keeps their mouth shut after Black Eye’s had a go at ’em,”

  “Good work,” added the scarred thug, his jagged lip twisting into a smirk as he nudged Oswald with an elbow. “We’ll take it from here. You’ve done your part.”

  Oswald stifled the urge to sigh. It was always the same: gratitude, desperation, then the moment they thought they had control again, entitlement crept back in. Doesn’t matter. Not like I enjoy bein’ around ‘em anyway.

  Before turning to leave, he asked, “What about my pay for the month?"

  The scarred thug froze mid-laugh, dragging a rough hand over the stubble on his chin. His grin twisted into something mocking. “Pay? Right. You’d best try askin’ Jorven about that. He’s the one holdin’ the purse tonight.”

  Oswald met his gaze for a brief second, then gave a curt nod. No use arguing.

  He turned and strode away. The laughter and murmured insults trailed behind him, fading away gradually as he slipped deeper into the darkened streets. That bastard’s probably at the usual place.

  Finding Jorven would be easy enough, but the thought of dealing with him again sent a slow coil of irritation twisting through Oswald’s gut. He hated this, hated every second of playing errand boy for the Black Hounds. But if he got his pay tonight, that would be it. He’d finally have enough money to pay all the fees at the adventurer's guild. Enough to leave this wretched gang behind and chase what he really wanted. Finally, I'm gonna be an adventurer…

  The thought softened something in his chest, and for the first time in weeks, the corners of his mouth lifted. Just a little. He pictured himself standing at the adventurer's guild, drinking ale and counting piles of coins after finishing a quest.

  But as he passed another Black Hound thug loitering near a street corner, the smile vanished. His face fell back into its usual mask of indifference. No point in looking too eager. They’d smell it like blood in the water.

  Eventually, the warehouse came into view, a hulking shadow against the night sky, its jagged roofline like broken teeth. The walls were smeared with grime, their original color lost beneath decades of neglect. Across one side, graffiti stretched in bold, jagged strokes: a snarling black hound with gleaming red eyes, its fangs bared in a threatening snarl. The signature mark of the Black Hounds.

  Subtle as ever, Oswald thought, his lips twisting into a faint sneer. Nothing says "stay away" like a slobbering mutt painted on a wall.

  Inside, thugs lounged around makeshift tables, playing cards or throwing dice. The dim lighting painted everything in a grimy hue, and the clatter of weapons being sharpened echoed faintly from the far corner.

  Oswald’s eyes swept over the room until they settled on Jorven. The man sat behind a counter lined with rusted barbed wire.

  A small slit in the wire allowed for the exchange of coin, but the setup was clearly designed to give Jorven the upper hand. His greasy, thinning hair clung to his forehead, and his narrow, rat-like face was split into a crooked grin as he counted a pile of coins. That bastard’s been acting all high and mighty ever since he got promoted to pack leader.

  When he approached, Jorven’s beady eyes flicked up, the grin widening. “Well, if it ain’t Black Eye himself. Come t’collect, eh?”

  Oswald stopped just short of the counter. “I’m here for my pay. The cut for the month. Is it ready?”

  Jorven barely spared him a glance, flicking a coin into a growing pile with a lazy clink. “Ah, ‘bout that. There’s been… complications. Y’know how it is, times bein’ tough an’ all. Ain’t no cut for ya this month.”

  "You think I’m stupid? I know damn well you got more than enough to pay me double my cut and then some. Just hand over what you owe me."

  “Ain’t my problem. If ya got a complaint, take it up with the big boss. I’m just the one holdin’ the purse strings, see?”

  "You can't keep doin' things this way, Jorven."

  “Oh yeah? An’ what’s a rat like you gonna do, huh? Ya got yer head so far up yer own ass, ya ain’t got a clue how the world works. Should be grateful I’m still playin’ nice with ya since yer just a kid.”

  "I'm sixteen."

  "So? Like I said, a kid."

  Oswald stared at him, barely restraining the urge to drive his fist straight through that smug expression. The Black Hounds had always been the best way to make money in the slums if you didn’t mind getting your hands dirty.

  But when it came to actually paying their own, they had a long, ugly history of conveniently forgetting debts. And Oswald knew better than to expect anything different. He didn’t like them nearly enough to put up with their antics anymore.

  He planted both hands on the counter and leaned in slightly. “I worked and bled for this crew for years. But now you’re tellin’ me I get nothin’?”

  Jorven let out a slow chuckle, shaking his head like Oswald was some na?ve fool who just didn’t get it. “Ain’t personal, just how it is. We got bigger things on the horizon, means everyone’s gotta make sacrifices."

  “Funny how ‘sacrifices’ always mean we get shorted while you and the big boss don’t miss a meal.”

  “Watch that mouth, boy. I like ya, but likin’ someone don’t mean much in this business. You got a problem, take it up with the boss.”

  Oswald let out a sharp breath through his nose, reining in the urge to lunge over the counter. He’d been in the Black Hounds long enough to know how this game was played. Pushing too hard now wouldn’t get him his money, it’d just get him a knife in the ribs when he wasn’t looking.

  Jorven was enjoying this, knowing damn well Oswald couldn’t do a thing about it here and now. The bastard thought he’d won. Fine.

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  Oswald exhaled slowly, tapping his fingers against the counter. Ain’t a chance he’s coughing it up now. But I’ll get what I’m owed, one way or another.

  Forcing a polite smile, one as hollow as Jorven’s excuses, Oswald straightened his posture. “That’s all good, I’ll just be on my way then.”

  Jorven blinked, his grin faltering as confusion crept across his rat-like features. His eyes narrowed suspiciously, but after a moment, he gave a grunt and waved Oswald off with a dismissive flick of his hand. “Suit yerself,” he muttered, already turning back to his pile of coins.

  Oswald pivoted on his heel as he left without another word. Just need to find a place where I can wait things out.

  Soon, he found an abandoned building not too far from the warehouse. Even in the best of times, the place was a rotting husk, its walls bowing inward. The wooden beams overhead creaked faintly in the chill breeze, riddled with cracks and moss. Oswald slipped through a jagged hole where a door might have stood long ago, brushing past dangling cobwebs that clung to his sleeve.

  Not much, but it’ll do, he thought, settling into a corner where the damp smell of mildew was strongest. Resting his back against the cold, crumbling wall, he tugged his cloak tighter around himself. I'll head out again in a few hours.

  ***

  Oswald had spent years under the Black Hounds’ thumb, long enough to learn their patterns: their vices, their lapses, their blind spots. More importantly, he knew precisely when the warehouse would be at its most vulnerable.

  Having finished his nap, Oswald finally left the abandoned building he hid in and went back to the warehouse. Except this time, he had no plans on using the front entrance.

  The rear entrance stood just as he had anticipated, neglected and barely watched. A single door slouched between two rusting oil drums, while a measly two thugs guarded the area. This should be easy.

  When Oswald stepped closer, the guards snapped to attention as they recognized him. “Black Eye?” one of them said, clearly skeptical. “What’re you doin’ sneakin’ ‘round the back?”

  Oswald spread his hands in a gesture of mock innocence. “Just wanted to say hi."

  The thug opened his mouth, but before another word could escape, Oswald’s foot lashed out in a brutal arc, catching him square in the stomach. The man let out a choked grunt as he staggered backward, clutching at his midsection.

  But immediately after, Oswald drove the hilt of his shortsword into the side of the thug’s head with enough force to send him sprawling into the dirt. The second guard, caught off-guard, fumbled for the cudgel at his belt, but Oswald closed the distance in a heartbeat.

  Grabbing the man’s wrist, he twisted sharply, forcing the weapon from his grasp. A sharp elbow to the jaw followed, and the thug crumpled like a rag doll, collapsing in a heap beside his companion.

  Oswald straightened, his breaths steady as he cast a quick glance around. Still clear. He crouched to ensure both men were fully unconscious, then dragged their limp forms into the shadows, leaving the back entrance unguarded.

  Afterwards, he knelt beside the unconscious guards as he began his search. He patted down their belts and pockets, careful to make no unnecessary noise. One of the guards wore a pouch that jangled faintly as he opened it: a mix of coins and a small brass key. This should be it, he thought, slipping the key into his own pouch.

  He rose to his feet, casting a final glance at the two guards to confirm they were still out cold. Satisfied, he turned to the back door. The brass key fit snugly into the lock, and with a faint click, the mechanism disengaged.

  Oswald eased the door open, the hinges letting out only the faintest whisper of protest. The interior was cloaked in dim light thanks to a few scattered lanterns. Crates and barrels lined the walls in careless stacks, casting jagged silhouettes across the floor.

  It wasn't difficult for Oswald to slip deeper into the warehouse, every creaking board, every passage had long been burned into his memory. Naturally, he was keenly aware of where the true prize was waiting. There, Jorven’s black box.

  A reinforced strongbox, always kept close. Jorven never trusted banks, never trusted his own men half the time either, so he made sure his most valuable possessions stayed within arm’s reach. He wouldn’t leave it sitting out in the open, but he also wouldn’t keep it far. He liked knowing his wealth was always nearby.

  Oswald looked to the far corner, where a heavy wooden table sat half-buried under scattered ledgers and loose coins. Beneath it, tucked out of sight but not nearly well enough, rested the black box. Good. Now, let’s see what you’re hiding.

  Crouching beside it, he traced a finger over the lock, feeling its shape, its weight. A careless thief would try to brute-force it, maybe smash it open or pry at the hinges. But Oswald was smarter than that.

  His gaze darted across the warehouse, scanning for anything he could use. There were several discarded tools near a toppled crate: rusted wrenches, splintered wooden handles, bent nails. And among them, there was also a thin metal pick. That’ll do.

  Oswald slipped it free and returned to the strongbox, kneeling as he inserted the makeshift tool into the lock. Each shift of the pick sent the faintest tremor through his fingertips. The tumblers resisted, stubborn but predictable. He exhaled slowly, drowning out the noise of his own heartbeat.

  A breath. A slight twist. Pressure in just the right place. The lock fought him, but only for a moment, and then—

  Footsteps, many of them. Shit. Whole lotta people are comin'

  Oswald kept his head down, slipping away from the box. No sudden movements. No wasted motion.

  The creak of the back entrance splintered the silence, followed by the sound of boots on stone. When Oswald stood up and turned his head, he saw faces emerging from the gloom, eyes glinting with the smug certainty of men who knew they had the upper hand.

  “Well, well. Thought ya could just stroll in and help yerself, eh, Black Eye?”

  Oswald finally lifted his gaze, scanning the group with a single measured sweep. Twelve of Jorven's dogs, not ideal.

  A figure stepped forward, cracking his knuckles with slow pops. The man was built like a battering ram, his coat pulled taut over broad shoulders. At his hip, a heavy cudgel rested against his belt. “Did ya really think Jorven wouldn’t be expectin’ somethin’ like this? Yer clever, but ya ain’t that clever.”

  Oswald rolled his shoulders, exhaling through his nose. “Not here for trouble. Just want what’s mine.”

  The first thug snorted. “That ain’t our problem. But tell ya what, come along quietly, and maybe we won’t rough ya up too bad.”

  Oswald tilted his head, his lips curling into a dry smirk. “What, took all of ya just to say that? Damn, I’m honored.”

  Laughter stirred through the group, but it carried an uneasy edge. These weren’t men eager for a fight. They were men under orders to teach a lesson, or worse.

  The lead thug’s grin faltered, just for a heartbeat, before he forced a sneer back into place. “We ain’t takin’ no risks.” His hand dropped fully to his weapon, fingers tightening around the handle. “Last chance. Come quiet.”

  Oswald sighed, rolling his shoulders like he was shrugging off an old weight. Not exactly keen on usin’ my eye… but don’t think I got much of a choice.

  He reached up to the strap of his eyepatch. The leather slipped free, and the moment it fell away, his gaze locked onto the nearest thug.

  In an instant, the man’s breath hitched in his throat, pupils blown wide with sheer terror. His entire body seized, his chest heaving like something unseen had wrapped around his lungs and squeezed.

  A strangled, wet gasp forced its way past his lips as he staggered backward, hands scrabbling at his own chest. His mouth stretched open in a silent scream as his limbs trembled violently.

  “Don’t look at him!” someone yelled.

  “Take him down, now!”

  The club swung toward his skull in a clumsy arc. Oswald saw it coming. He knew exactly how to dodge, how to counter, how to kill. But he never made the decision to move.

  His body dropped low, slipping beneath the attack as if guided by invisible strings. The air above him stirred, a whisper of wind against his skin as the club whooshed past. Fuck, this always happens.

  His fingers tightened around his sword’s hilt, but even that felt distant, like he was holding it through layers of fabric. Before the thug’s swing had even finished, his own blade was already rising.

  The sensation barely registered before bone cracked beneath his strike. Warmth sprayed against his fingers, and a thick, gurgling sound clawed its way from the man’s throat. Oswald’s breath hitched, but his body didn’t hesitate. His opponent collapsed in a heap, the club slipping from limp fingers with a hollow clatter against the floor.

  Oswald didn’t stop. His arm twisted without his say-so as he turned sharply to meet another attack. Sparks erupted as steel screeched against steel. The impact should’ve jarred him, sent tremors up his arm. But his muscles absorbed it too easily, reacting with a strength that wasn’t his own.

  His free hand lashed out before he could think, knuckles slamming into his opponent’s face with enough force to shatter bone. The man reeled, but Oswald didn’t let him fall. His fingers seized the thug’s collar, yanking him forward.

  Oi, body! Cut that out! Let the bastard go! Yet, his grip only tightened.

  A sickening crunch echoed as he drove the man’s skull into the nearest table. The body slumped instantly, dead weight in his grasp. His fingers uncurled, letting it fall to the ground.

  Oswald took a step back, his mind racing while his body remained eerily calm. He should’ve been gasping for breath, but he didn't feel even the slightest bit tired.

  He felt like a prisoner in his own body, watching as his sword flicked through the air in a blur, and before he could process why, steel punched through flesh. A shocked gasp rasped from a thug's lips as the tip of Oswald’s blade buried itself in his throat.

  Panic flickered in the eyes of the remaining thugs. Oswald wasn’t sure if they thought he was just skilled, or if they realized what he already knew. That he wasn’t the one fighting.

  His legs adjusted their stance, weight shifting as a broad man charged him with an axe raised high. Oswald wanted to step back, to take a breath. But his body had already decided. He dropped low. His sword cut through the air in a smooth arc, slicing clean through the thick muscle of the man’s hamstring. A howl of pain erupted, but Oswald barely heard it. His blade was already rising again.

  Steel plunged into the thug’s chest, slipping through ribs with disturbing ease. The man shuddered, mouth open as if to speak, but no words came. His body sagged forward. Oswald wrenched his sword free, the blood-streaked steel gleaming in the dim light.

  Oswald had always known that using his right eye would make it harder for him to control his body. But this was the first time that he truly couldn't control even a single finger. He wanted to stop fighting and just run. His body had other plans.

  Someone rushed from behind, and as if by instinct, Oswald's sword lashed out, severing flesh before the attacker even reached him. The sensation was numb, distant. He felt the impact. He felt the warmth of blood spattering his arm. But none of it felt real.

  The Black Hound thugs quickly fell one after another. And Oswald, victorious and unscathed, had never felt more trapped in his own skin.

  When the ninth man lunged. Oswald barely moved. His blade drove forward, sinking deep into the thug’s chest. The man’s hands trembled, clawing at Oswald’s arm in a final, futile attempt to break free. His body convulsed. Blood gushed.

  Oswald twisted the blade. A strangled gasp escaped the thug’s lips, his body sagging against the steel before crumpling to the floor.

  Then, Something pulsed. The sword in Oswald's hand darkened, shifting from silver to something deeper, something unnatural. A red gleam flickered along the edge, displaying energy that twisted like flames licking at the air.

  Tendrils of crimson rose from the blood pooling at his feet, curling around his legs in thin, ghostly strands. Cold, yet burning. Crawling up his skin, sinking deep beneath it.

  The remaining thugs faltered. “What… what is he?” One said, stumbling backward.

  Another turned, his weapon clattering to the ground. “We’ve gotta get out of here! He’s not human!”

  Oswald didn’t move. His fingers remained curled around the hilt, knuckles white, breath unsteady. The tendrils coiled tighter, pressing against his skin, wrapping around his arms, his chest, trying to drag him down.

  No! I ain't goin' out like this! Pain cracked through Oswald's skull like splintering glass. A sharp gasp tore from his throat as he dropped to one knee, digging into the blood-slick floor. The tendrils tightened, refusing to let go, pulsing in rhythm with the unnatural energy still thrumming in his blade.

  His vision blurred. Darkness curled at the edges.

  By this point, Oswald knew there was only one way out. With every last bit of willpower he could monster, the boy forced his arm to move, clawing at his eyepatch. The moment his hand found the patch, the tendrils fought harder, snapping at him like starving beasts.

  Oswald gritted his teeth, forcing himself upright. His fingers fumbled, shaking violently as he dragged the eyepatch back over his right eye. Yes!

  The tendrils froze. The unnatural energy recoiled, hissing like a dying ember before vanishing into the blood-slick floor. His sword dulled, its red gleam fading, returning to its ordinary steel. The air, once suffocating, lightened. But the echoes of what had just happened remained.

  Silence settled over the warehouse. Oswald exhaled, shoulders sagging. That… was close.

  Oswald pushed himself upright, blinking against the haze still clinging to the edges of his vision. Blood pooled in dark puddles around him, bodies sprawled in grotesque stillness. He knew that he needed to go, before reinforcements came.

  Stepping over a lifeless hand, he moved toward the exit. His boots squelched against the blood-soaked floor, but he didn’t stop. He slipped out into the alley, the night air thick with the scent of damp rot and filth.

  But before he could disappear into the shadows—

  “Over there! That’s him!”

  A cluster of figures gathered at the far end of the street, weapons in hand. This is gonna be a long night.