Antoine sat on the edge of his new tenement bed with his ward-sink belt across his thighs.

  The leather drank the light. The self fashioned belt felt like an anchor, the only thing in the room that belonged to a plan.

  He opened it with his thumb and checked the weight inside. Five stamina potions. Three antiseptic vials. Two blinding mist globes. Each one whole, each one sealed by shape, each one made to survive a jostling hand and a hard run.

  He set them back in place by touch alone. Count, spacing, balance. Habit from a lab, dragged into a world that gave him nothing and still demanded precision.

  Trent had been gone long enough for the corridor sounds to change twice. Boots, then laughing, then the soft scrape of a broom. A baby cried down the hall, then quieted. Someone argued using words Antoine couldn’t distinguish. Then the building settled into its usual hum.

  He waited.

  Waiting burned in a different way than crafting. Crafting at least moved. Crafting took inputs and gave outputs. Waiting only took.

  The door stayed shut. Antoine kept his back straight, shoulders loose, one hand resting where the belt could come free fast. His eyes drifted over the room’s corners. The window. The weak line of light. The stains in the plaster that mapped old damp and old smoke.

  He thought of the Undercity. Of seams that went dry and safe and still carried teeth nearby. Of the big shapes in the dark that moved too slow for rats and too sure for men.

  He thought of the coin he had seen in the gatehouse last run, silver and gold like a second kind of light. He had walked away with nothing in his pocket and a clock above his head.

  Twenty-four hours left.

  A knock came, single and sharp.

  Antoine stood and slid the belt around his waist. He put his hand on the latch and paused, listening for the hallway’s breath.

  Another knock, then Trent’s voice, low.

  “It’s me. Open.”

  Antoine opened the door a handspan.

  Trent slipped inside with a bundle under his arm and his water bag hanging from his shoulder. A knife sat at his belt, easy to reach. He looked tired in the eyes, bright everywhere else, like he had been smiling for strangers and saving the grim for home.

  He shut the door behind him and turned, hands spread.

  “Before you ask,” Trent said, “I got coin.”

  Antoine watched his hands.

  “Show,” Antoine said.

  Trent snorted, reached into his pouch, and poured a small pile onto the table.

  Gold. A few pieces. Heavy enough that the wood made a dull sound beneath them.

  Antoine felt his throat tighten. He forced his face to stay calm.

  Trent pushed the coins into a neater line with two fingers.

  “Ten for the stamina,” he said. “Six for the antiseptic.”

  Antoine did the math without moving his lips. Sixteen gold total. A veritable fortune, over a platinum coin if they weren’t divided.

  “And the mist?” Antoine asked.

  Trent laughed once, then sobered.

  “They laughed too. Right up until I gave one away.”

  Antoine’s gaze sharpened.

  Trent lifted both hands again, quick.

  “Hear me out. It was the right play. They saw it, they wanted it, they stopped laughing. The other fence stopped laughing. Even the birds in the corner alley stopped laughing.”

  “You gave it away,” Antoine said.

  “For proof,” Trent said. “A free bite turns the stomach into hunger. You know that.”

  Antoine stared at the gold. The gold stared back. Trent was right though, sometimes it took a free sample to get someone hooked.

  “Where did you take them?” Antoine asked, “the samples.”

  Trent’s grin returned, thinner.

  “Neutral ground. A fence who keeps his hands clean and his floor cleaner. His name is Orel, if you ever have to speak it. We do business often. He knows me.”

  Antoine picked up one of the gold pieces. The edge bit his skin, sharp and real. He set it down again.

  “You said split,” Antoine said.

  Trent nodded. “Half.”

  He slid eight gold toward Antoine, then pulled the other eight back toward himself.

  Antoine did not move the coins yet. He looked at Trent.

  “I earned half, per my terms,” Trent said, then lifted his chin. “You craft. I move. I talk, I watch, I keep your face out of the market. You got a stomach for making things. You got no stomach for selling them in the streets. That is fine. Lots of people die trying to do both.” Under his breath he muttered just loud enough to hear, “and Orel and the like wouldn’t do business with a stranger.”

  Antoine exhaled slowly.

  “Tell me what happened,” Antoine said. “Start at the start.”

  Trent leaned back against the wall, then pushed off and began pacing, too much energy for the room.

  “First,” he said, “I went to Orel’s place. No sign on the door. Two locks, one man at the threshold, one man inside with a book. They let me through after the look. I gave Orel the talk.”

  “The talk,” Antoine echoed.

  Trent’s smile widened. “The one where I tell him I have something rare, something clean, something that makes his customers come back. He listens because he knows I can smell what sells.”

  “And he named the prices,” Antoine said.

  Trent shook his head. “He tried.”

  He stopped pacing and held up two fingers.

  “I put the stamina vial in his palm. He rolled it like a gem. He asked what it did. I told him. He laughed at first, and said he can buy stamina in the Undercity Market’s for silver if he wants gutter brew.”

  Antoine kept his face blank.

  Trent continued. “Then I told him it comes without the stink. No cramps. No fever. No shaking, or headaches. And tastes tolerable.He stopped laughing. He asked where I got it. I told him I got it from someone who can make more.”

  Antoine’s pulse picked up at that, but he kept still.

  Trent held up a third finger. “I put the antiseptic down. He smelled it. He asked if it stung. I told him it cleans. He asked if it keeps rot away. I told him it does, so long as the cut is fresh.”

  “You promised,” Antoine said.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  “I described,” Trent said. “He heard what he wanted.”

  Antoine waited.

  Trent’s expression shifted, and his pace slowed.

  “Then I brought out the mist,” he said.

  Antoine’s mouth tightened.

  “Orel looked at it like a toy,” Trent said. “He said, ‘What am I meant to do with fog in a bottle, Trent.’ His clerk laughed. Two street rats in the back laughed. Even the guard at the door smiled.”

  “And you gave it away,” Antoine said.

  “I gave one away,” Trent corrected. “To prove it has teeth.”

  He leaned forward, hands resting on his knees as if the memory pulled him down.

  “I asked for a back space,” Trent said. “Orel gave me a pantry with a cracked door. He told me I can make a fool of myself out of the customers’ view.”

  Antoine pictured it, the smell of dried herbs and spilled liquor, this place sounded like an old fashioned speakeasy.

  “I told Orel to stand inside the room,” Trent said, “with me. I told his clerk to stand outside the door. I told the crew they can watch through the crack if they want.”

  Antoine kept his voice even. “A demonstration.”

  “A small one,” Trent said. “No one got hurt.”

  He tapped his knuckles together.

  “I threw the globe against the wall,” Trent said. “It broke like glass but it broke clean. No shards. It became fog. Thick as wool. And the blinding light left us both seeing colors. You could have told me about the shriek it makes though. Luckily I didn’t get the guard on all our heads. But after Orel coughed once, since he could not see his own hands. He reached for me and grabbed air. He started swearing. Loud.”

  Trent’s grin returned, sharp.

  “His clerk opened the door to yell at us,” Trent said, “and the fog rolled out like a living thing. The clerk screamed, backed up, tripped over his own feet. The crew stopped laughing.”

  Antoine said nothing.

  Trent shrugged, as if the rest was obvious.

  “Orel found his way out by touch,” Trent said. “He stood in the hall breathing hard, and he looked at me like I had brought a blade that cuts from a distance. He asked how many I can get him. I told him the maker can do batches. He asked where the maker resides.”

  Trent’s eyes flicked to Antoine, then away.

  “I told him he sleeps where he sleeps,” Trent said. “And I sleep where I sleep. Orel understood. Mostly.”

  “Mostly,” Antoine repeated.

  Trent’s pace started again, slower now.

  “After that,” he said, “we talked coin. He offered eight for stamina. I laughed in his face. He offered nine. I told him ten or I walk. He paid ten.”

  “And six,” Antoine said, “for antiseptic.”

  “He tried five,” Trent said. “I told him the guild’s clean men sell salves that have similar effects to people with the noble ranks. I told him this is for gutters who bleed in the dark. Six, or you keep buying dirty rags.”

  “You said the street rats were listening, your crew as you call them,” Antoine said.

  Trent’s expression tightened. “They were.”

  “Did they have questions?” Antoine said.

  “Too many,” Trent admitted. “They asked who made it. They asked where I found the maker. They asked if he can make something that makes a man sleep for three days. They asked if he could make something that burns the inside of a guard’s throat.”

  Antoine’s stomach turned.

  “And you,” Antoine said, “said what.” His tone reflected that he expected a certain answer.

  Trent lifted his hands, palms out. “I deflected. I joked. I told them the maker is a ghost, a kitchen spirit. A mysterious chef. They laughed, but they kept watching me.”

  “Did anyone follow you?” Antoine asked.

  Trent paused. His gaze went to the door, then back.

  “Maybe,” he said shrugging “But nobody is going to suspect someone with this much coin earning potential would live in the Tenement’s.”

  Antoine’s voice stayed flat. “Maybe is a problem.”

  Trent nodded once. “I took three turns that make no sense. I walked through a fish lane and came back around by the mill. I watched shadows in windows. I watched footsteps in puddles. I saw a shape once that could have been a drunk.”

  “And the gang? The street rats?” Antoine asked.

  Trent’s mouth tightened. “They came earlier as I implied...”

  Antoine kept his hand near the belt. “In Orel’s place.”

  “In the room outside his door,” Trent said. “After the talk. After the coin.”

  He drew a breath, and his voice went lower.

  “Adult crew,” Trent said. “They walked like they owned the floor. Orel went polite. Everyone went quiet.”

  “What else did they want? There is something you're not telling me.” Antoine asked.

  Trent gave him a look. “Territory. Tax. Same as always.”

  “And you told them what?” Antoine said.

  “I stood still,” Trent said. “I kept my smile. I said hello like they were old friends.”

  Antoine waited. Trent continued.

  “They said they overheard about new product,” Trent said. “They said stamina that does not bite back. They said antiseptic that keeps flesh clean. And they saw the fog that turns a hallway into a grave.”

  Antoine felt his jaw lock.

  “They asked for the maker,” Trent said. “They asked where to find them. Usual line of questions, everyone wants a good connection.”

  “And you deflected?” Antoine asked.

  Trent nodded. “I said I am the channel. I said I will bring more if they want more.”

  “And they believed you?”

  Trent’s laugh held no humor. “They believed I know more than I said.”

  Trent looked at him, and for a moment the grin slipped fully away.

  “I told them I can bring supply,” Trent said. “I told them I can bring it steady. I told them the maker stays behind a curtain. That part I did for you.”

  Antoine’s voice sharpened. “At what cost? I won’t be owned. I told you that in no uncertain terms. You know this is only the start right?”

  Trent spread his hands again placatingly. “At the cost that they now see me as useful.”

  Antoine felt the shape of the trap. Trent was braiding himself into the story, strand by strand, until cutting him out would tear flesh.

  “Deadline, when does this Orel expect more? And will the rats interfere further?” Antoine asked.

  Trent nodded. “Orel expects more by morning. Even if there are no sales. Rat’s want a report. They want to see that I move when they speak.”

  Antoine stared at the eight gold. It felt warm now, as if it carried heat from the street.

  “Did you agree to a location?” Antoine asked.

  Trent shook his head fast. “No. I gave them nothing that points to your door.”

  Antoine held his gaze. “Trent.”

  Trent sighed. “They asked where I sleep too.”

  “And you told them what? Wait, if I am staying in a ghetto where do you sleep?” Antoine asked

  “I laughed,” Trent said. “I told them I sleep where the rats do, under whatever roof does not leak. They laughed back. Then one of them touched my shoulder, gentle as a lover.”

  Antoine’s skin crawled.

  Trent’s voice stayed quiet. “He said he can always find me.” shrugging he continued, “I drift, stay at various Inns and occasionally I even stay here at this particular tenement if I am on hard times. But the Inn’s have room and board. This place, your best bet for food is the gruel lines or buy some food for coppers but you’ll be eating stew three times a day if that’s your budget.”

  Silence fell between them.

  Antoine looked around the room again, as if the walls had shifted. The tenement felt thinner now, less like a hiding place and more like a box.

  Trent cleared his throat and tried to lift the mood.

  “Coin,” he said, nodding at Antoine’s stacks. “You got it. That is the point.”

  Antoine turned the top coin in his fingers.

  “Eight gold,” Antoine said.

  “Eight,” Trent agreed. “You want the full sixteen, you can go sell yourself.”

  Antoine’s eyes flicked up. “You want me dependent,” he stated.

  Trent’s grin came back, careful.

  “I want you alive,” Trent said. “And I want you making more.”

  Antoine slid the coins into his palm, then into the belt’s hidden space. The leather swallowed them without a sound.

  He met Trent’s eyes.

  “One of each,” Antoine said. “That stays, I don’t trust you to offload my whole supply yet.”

  Trent nodded. “Agreed. Got quite the haul off that first run.”

  “You come back by morning,” Antoine said, “even if nothing moves.”

  Trent lifted his hands in surrender. “By morning.”

  “You give me the names you heard,” Antoine said. “If you caught any.”

  Trent hesitated, then nodded once. “I caught one. They call him Gaff. He is the one who touched my shoulder.”

  Antoine stored it away.

  “And one more thing,” Antoine said.

  Trent raised his brows.

  Antoine’s voice stayed calm. “You do not promise repeat supply without asking me first.”

  Trent’s smile thinned. “You want to negotiate from a room with one bed and thin walls.”

  “I want to keep my head,” Antoine said.

  Trent stared at him, then gave a small nod.

  “Fine,” Trent said. “No promises. Only hints.”

  He shifted the water bag on his shoulder and moved toward the door, then stopped.

  “One more thing,” Trent said.

  Antoine watched him.

  “The fence wants more mist,” Trent said. “Paid. He wants to see it again, on his terms, in his space. He thinks it can clear a hallway. He thinks it can turn a chase.”

  Antoine felt a cold thread of satisfaction, then a colder thread of fear.

  “And the rats?” Antoine asked.

  Trent’s eyes narrowed. “They want the chef.”

  Antoine’s hand settled on the belt again. The ward-sink leather felt heavier than before.

  Trent opened the door a crack, peered out, then slipped into the hall.

  Before he left, he looked back once.

  “Coins in hand,” Trent said softly. “That is the hook. Now comes the line.”

  The door shut.

  Antoine stood alone in the dim room, gold hidden against his skin, permit time burning down. Hours remained, not enough for another run.

  Outside, footsteps passed, then faded.

  He waited again, this time listening for the shape of pursuit, and for the next braid tightening around his throat.