The driver had been right about the directions. Before long, we were back on familiar ground. Our home turf. The difference between here and the Hansen District was night and day. It wasn’t just the rundown state of the buildings – all of the peeling paint, the patchy roofs, the crooked door frames – it was the whole atmosphere. The tightness of the streets, the ck of breathing room, the absence of care or beauty. Nothing here was made to be admired. It was built to survive.

  And standing there, I felt it again, that gnawing need to get us out.

  Morgana and Dillon deserved better than this. We all did. Somewhere cleaner, somewhere quieter. Somewhere that didn’t reek of spilled ale and desperation. Maybe even somewhere beautiful. I wasn’t so na?ve to think that would come easy. But with the take from this job, we might actually have a shot. A real one. We could get that stake in a hauge business like they’d been talking about earlier.

  From there, if we pyed it right, we’d make real money. Legit money. I might have to get an actual career. No more jobs that involved train heists and future queens. Maybe I could work security for the hauling runs. That’d be ideal. Paid for guarding the cargo on the road, and then again once it got sold. Like getting paid twice for doing the same work. And if the business grew? We could move to Hansen. Leave the Danese grime behind.

  But there was still Marky to deal with.

  Getting out of a criminal’s pocket was never simple, and Marky… well, he was a good enough guy but we were a risk. Especially not after a job like this where we’d picked up dangerous knowledge along with our payday. Information like that made you a liability, and Marky would need to believe, deep down, that we weren’t about to turn on him once we were out of reach.

  I didn’t have a solution yet. But something would come to me. It always did. Worst case? We could offer him a cut through the business. Smuggling for him under the guise of legitimate freight. Keep the money clean, keep him happy.

  My thoughts were broken by Dillon nudging my shoulder.

  “I think we’ll need to travel close to Miralder Street,” he said, gncing ahead.

  “I was thinking the same,” I replied, before Morgana jumped in.

  “We’ll have to go around it, though. There’s no way we’re walking through with you two carrying those bags.”

  She was right. If we so much as stepped a foot onto Miralder with these packs, we’d be gutted and robbed before we knew it. That stretch was crawling with lowlife thugs, pickpockets, and every type of gutter scum. Even the streets nearby weren’t much better, but they were survivable. Barely. Sometimes.

  “Are you okay to take the bag when we get close, Morgana?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Yeah, that’s fine. You’ll need your hands free in case anyone starts something.”

  We left the retive safety of the alleyways and merged with the thinning crowd. Nightlife was starting to wake up. The shouts and ughter from nearby taverns spilled into the street, along with the heavy stink of ale and sweat. Even early in the evening, Miralder Street was already buzzing. Brothels lit with flickering nterns called out to passers-by. Drunken arguments echoed from behind cracked doors.

  I passed the bag to Morgana and scanned our surroundings. Nothing immediate, but that meant little. Trouble in this part of town rarely gave you a warning.

  “Which street are we taking?” I asked.

  We had three options to get through. Miralder was immediately off the table. Dougs to the right. Boudiver to the left.

  “I don’t fancy the brothels on Dougs,” Dillon muttered. “Even now, it’s like a warm-up to Miralder.”

  “Morgana?”

  “Boudiver’s probably safer,” she said, already angling us that way. “The drunks over there are just finishing work. Dougs… gets worse every year.”

  We turned toward Boudiver, keeping our heads down and our pace steady. We weren’t home yet. But we were close.

  With the decision made, we veered left toward Boudiver.

  I wasn’t exactly thrilled about it. That street made me nervous for one specific reason.

  My father.

  He spent a lot of time in the taverns along this stretch. Then again, he spent a lot of time in most taverns, but these were some of his favourites. If luck was on our side, we’d pass through unnoticed. No awkward run-ins. No sudden detours into family trauma.

  Boudiver wasn’t the worst part of Danese, but it was far from the best. There were six inns lining the street, a handful of food stalls, and one general store that seemed to survive off the whims of inebriated customers. The store was almost always open. They sold anything and everything, trying to catch the st few coins from a drunk’s pocket. Half-rotten fruit, greasy pies, socks, belts, knives, fake jewellery. You name it.

  The pce was always bad around closing time when the night’s crowd stumbled out of the inns and suddenly remembered they’d meant to buy something.

  As we made our way past the first couple of inns, we had to keep our heads down. There were plenty of rowdy drinkers already shouting and causing trouble outside, but nothing we couldn’t handle. Morgana and Dillon walked behind me, holding tight to the bags. Their grips were firm and their eyes watchful, ready for anyone who got ideas.

  And honestly, I couldn’t bme anyone who did. The bags were too nice. Good leather, solid stitching, and clearly heavy. They didn’t just say “we’ve got money.” They screamed it. Around here, that was as good as a challenge. I cursed our success under my breath. The haul had been good, much better than we hoped in fact but now it was making us targets.

  A few drunks hollered at us as we passed. Mostly harmless stuff. One old man, eyes gzed with drink, offered to “help” Morgana carry her bag because it looked “too heavy for a girl.” I politely declined on her behalf by offering him a broken nose. He thought about it for a moment, sized me up, and wisely decided against pushing his luck. He was old, small, and not nearly drunk enough to take on someone younger with a clear height advantage.

  A couple of other groups noticed the scene and started shouting, more jeers than threats, but I stayed tense. All it took was one of them getting bold, and we’d have to make a run for it. The problem with fights around here was that once one broke out, the scavengers came fast. A shiny trinket, a distraction, and suddenly half the street’s lowlifes were in on it. I wasn’t going to let that happen.

  We were almost in the clear. The shop was just ahead, its light spilling out onto the cobbles, when our luck turned.

  A group of men stumbled out of the store, snacks and drinks in hand, voices loud and bodies clumsy with booze. Five of them. All trouble.

  First, a short bald man with a leer that made my skin crawl. Then a nky one with greasy hair and darting eyes. Next was a round man whose waistcoat looked like it belonged to a much younger, much thinner version of himself. Beside him, an average-looking guy who stood out only because he still had all his teeth. And then… him.

  My father.

  It had been years since I’d seen him, but time hadn’t changed much. He looked smaller now, like life had chipped away at him piece by piece. A little thinner, a little paler. But still the same. Same crooked smile, same air of undeserved confidence. And worst of all, still wearing that old, tattered military coat like it meant something. Like it earned him respect. At least now the coat was fraying, the seams splitting, the stains showing through.

  Surprisingly, he wasn’t holding a drink.

  He hadn’t seen me yet. I tried to move quickly, nudging Morgana and Dillon forward in the hopes we could slip past before any of them took proper notice.

  But the bald one had other pns.

  “Oi!” he called out as we drew level, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife. “What you lot carrying, then?”

  Just like that, every pair of eyes in the group turned our way.

  “What you got in those nice bags, eh?” the bald one slurred, his grin more teeth than lips.

  I subtly motioned for Morgana and Dillon to keep moving. They didn’t need the cue. We all knew the drill. They picked up their pace, trying to slip by without escating the situation. But the group ahead wasn’t having it. They began to fan out across the street, casually stepping into our path, like this was some game they’d pyed a hundred times before.

  I knew what this was. I’d seen it too many times. This was the moment. The pivot. The one where you either bowed your head and gave them what they wanted… or stood your ground and gave them something to remember.

  I chose the tter.

  “Hello, Dad,” I said, stepping in front of the others. I locked eyes with the man I hadn’t spoken to since he beat me bloody at eleven years old. “You’re looking awful. As always.”

  The effect was immediate. I felt Morgana and Dillon freeze behind me, the weight of my words hitting them like a thrown stone. But I flicked a hand behind my back, urging them to keep going. If they could get just a bit further down the street, they could outrun any of these drunks. All I had to do was keep their attention on me.

  The group went quiet, gncing between us with a mix of confusion and curiosity. There was no denying the resembnce. We had the same jawline, same nose, and the same eyes – though mine weren’t clouded with years of self-pity and drink. The truth of our retion hung in the air like smoke.

  My father’s face twisted into a sneer. For the first time in my life, he had to look up to meet my gaze. “Well, if it isn’t my wayward son. Hide your wallets, boys, this one’s got the slipperiest fingers in Danese.”

  His gang chuckled, pantomiming clutching their pockets and hugging their coats. It was pathetic. The joke didn’t sting, I’d heard worse, and it wasn’t even funny. But what did catch me off guard was that he knew what I’d been up to. I’d assumed he’d erased me from his mind like a bad debt. I never saw him look for me, never heard from him after I left. I’d spotted him a few times over the years, always from a distance, always while I made sure not to be seen.

  “You’ve got something worth stealing?” I ughed, a sharp bark of disbelief. “What did you do? Sweet-talk another officer out of their rations?”

  That wiped the smirk from his face. He stepped forward, and out of pure instinct, I stepped back. He noticed, because of course he noticed, and smiled. It was the smile of a man who thought he still had power.

  And I hated that I gave him even a sliver of it.

  It hit me hard then. How scared I still was of him. I’d imagined this moment for years. I’d trained for it. Sparring, scrapping, bleeding. Every fight I’d taken, every bone I’d broken, every lesson I’d learned, all of it had built toward being stronger than him. Better than him. And yet, here I was, retreating a step from a drunk ghost of a man.

  It wasn’t about skill. I’d fought through a mob on a moving train, taken punches that would put most people out cold. I’d even been hit by a spell! He wouldn’t st thirty seconds in the kind of fight I’d been in earlier today. My body might be tired, but not enough to lose to him.

  No, this was fear. Old and rooted deep. The kind that gets in your blood and stays there. The kind that doesn’t listen to logic or training.

  But something cracked inside me. Whether it was the years of trauma, the frustration of still reacting like a child, or just the sheer exhaustion of carrying this weight, I don’t know. But it rose fast and hot, and I let it fuel me.

  He was a bully. A petty, violent, bitter little man who thrived on fear and used it like currency. And for years, I had been one of the many who paid.

  But I wasn’t eleven anymore. I wasn’t his victim. I had a home now. People who cared for me. That loved me. I had worth.

  I stepped forward again, closing the gap, fists clenched. I wasn’t much taller, but just enough to look down on him, both literally and metaphorically. “I’m not your punching bag anymore. If you want to try me, do it. But I promise you, it won’t end the way it used to.”

  He opened his mouth, probably to spit out some venom, but I wasn’t done.

  I took another step, our faces now inches apart, and shoved him in the chest. Hard. He stumbled back, surprised, and for a moment the smug mask fell away. I wasn’t just talking anymore.

  I was daring him.

  Daring him to come at me.

  Daring him to prove he still had something left.

  The look on his face was one I’d never seen before. Confusion, maybe even a flicker of fear. It was like he’d just realised I wasn’t the boy he used to backhand around the house. I shoved him again, this time harder, sending him into the arms of his pudgy friend, who caught him with a grunt but said nothing.

  The rest of them just watched. No one moved. No one stepped in.

  “Come on, war hero,” I spat. “Show me how you earned that pension.”

  I stepped forward again, daring him to make the first move. But he didn’t. He just stood there, breathing hard, jaw clenched, pride wounded.

  And that was when I knew.

  I’d already won.

  Emotions fshed across my father’s face as he tried to compute the situation. I saw the storm hit him. Shock first, then anger, and finally, unmistakably, fear. Pushing him had made something clear: I was strong enough to move him, bold enough to stand my ground, and furious enough to go further.

  For the first time, I wondered if he was seeing me as I used to see him. A tall, angry blonde radiating violence and threat. We looked enough alike that it might have been like looking into a warped mirror.

  He finally settled on anger, shoving his friends away as he stepped back to his feet. The movement was clumsy. His hand missed one of their shoulders the first time, and that gave me a petty flicker of satisfaction. “Pushing an old man now?” he said, voice dripping with self-pity. “You really are a degenerate.”

  “You’re not an old man,” I snapped. “You’re an alcoholic waster. A fraud pying war hero to scam a pension off working people’s taxes.”

  That one nded.

  Greasy Hair couldn’t help a snicker, and my father’s head snapped toward him with a gre so venomous it could have melted gss. He didn’t like being ughed at. Not in front of his crew. Especially when it referenced the lie he’d built his identity around.

  “I’ll have you know I was fairly rewarded for my actions during that Challenge,” he said, straightening his coat like it somehow restored his dignity. “You’ll see when your time comes. If you don’t dodge your duty, that is.”

  His little gang forced out some ughter. It sounded brittle. I took the moment to gnce down the street and spotted Morgana and Dillon standing near the corner, watching tensely. They were safe for now. My fury had cooled just enough that I could think straight again.

  “You bckmailed your commanding officer,” I said calmly, my voice sharp as gss. “Caught him with someone he shouldn’t have been with and held it over him for a payout. You never even saw a fight. Maybe if the Invaders were children and petite women, you might’ve taken a swing.”

  I barked out a ugh and shook my head. “You’re pathetic. And we all know it.”

  I took a step back, ready to turn away and be done with him.

  But he wasn’t done.

  “What’s pathetic is you and your little friends running scams every night,” he snarled. “Oh, I’ve heard all about you, son. Cons, robberies, little tricks to make a coin. If your mother could see you now she’d be so disa–”

  He didn’t get the chance to finish.

  My fist connected with his nose before he could say another word. The crunch was loud and satisfying, followed immediately by a left hook to the side of his head. He crumpled like wet cloth, hitting the ground in a heap.

  “Don’t you ever speak about her!” I shouted, rage pouring out of me in waves. I loomed over his crumpled form, breathing hard, fists still clenched.

  His crew stared, stunned into silence. None of them moved to help him. I scanned their faces one by one, daring them to step forward, to test me.

  None did.

  After a moment, I took turned, walking quickly away. My chest still burned with fury.

  When I reached my friends, Morgana looked like she was about to hug me, her eyes full of concern, but I gave her a small shake of my head.

  “Let’s just get out of here.”

  “No arguments from me,” Dillon muttered, slinging his bag higher on his shoulder. I reached for Morgana’s bag without a word.

  We walked fast, cutting through the streets towards Marky’s. We’d already decided not to sit on the loot. The pn was simple. We’d sell it, take the coin, and disappear for a while. Gold was easier to move than stolen goods, especially if someone came looking.

  My mind, however, wasn’t on the job.

  I was spiraling.

  I was ashamed of hitting him. Which only made me more upset, because he deserved to be hit. He was a bully, a liar, and I had every reason to shut him up. I had to show him he didn’t own me anymore. And yet… I felt like I’d stooped to his level. Like I’d become more like him..

  He would’ve kept hitting if the roles were reversed. I didn’t. That was supposed to count for something. But I couldn’t shake the sense that something inside me had cracked.

  And then came the doubt.

  What if he was right?

  If my mother could see me now, doing the things I do. The thieving, fighting, throwing punches in the street. Would she even recognise me? Would she love me? Would she be disappointed?

  I felt it, heavy in my chest. The guilt. The grief. The self-loathing. My fists clenched so tightly I thought I’d draw blood, but it didn’t stop the thoughts. I kept seeing my father’s face… and then my own, as if they were merging. As if I was becoming him.

  I tried to blink it away, but the tears came anyway. First warm streaks down my cheeks, then sobs shaking their way out of my chest.

  I tried to hold it back, tried to be strong.

  But I couldn’t. Not this time.

  And I cried.