Wayne waited as the sun rose, shining brightly in the sky. Through the door came Lance, silent as ever. He walked in, pulled out a chair, and sat down without a word.

  Wayne grinned. “Unlike the previous fool, you’re smart. I can feel it, Lance—you got something special.” He leaned back, letting his words settle, watching Lance for a reaction.

  Lance already knew who he meant by “fool.” Lair. The boy Wayne had maniputed into thinking Lance had stolen his heirloom.

  “Why bother me with your games?” Lance asked, his voice ft.

  Wayne’s grin widened, eyes locking onto him. “That one was too arrogant for my liking. Thought I’d test you, too. Like the boss says—‘earn your living.’”

  Lance grit his teeth. “Aren’t I already working hard enough?”

  Wayne nodded, then pulled a knife from his clothes and smmed it onto the table. The bde gleamed under the dim light.

  “Yes, but hard enough to fill your stomach—not your pockets. And I need someone to do some dirty work.”

  Lance scoffed. “A child?”

  Wayne’s grin didn’t waver. “No one would expect a child to be an assassin. Especially a frail-looking one like you.” He leaned forward. “I need a few people eliminated.”

  Lance tensed. His fingers dug into the edge of his chair. “Why the hell would I kill for money?”

  Wayne studied him, then shrugged. “Your call.” He leaned back again. “Just remember—my doors are open.”

  Lance didn’t hesitate to walk out.

  He had killed before. But only to survive.

  Killing for money was different.

  ---

  The days passed in a dull rhythm. Lance kept to his work, hauling bags, moving crates, keeping his head down. He half-expected Wayne to pull something, but surprisingly, he didn’t. No tricks. No threats.

  Today was his final delivery. A wine shipment for a soldier.

  The muddy streets were lit with dim mps, flickering weakly against the night. The city was alive with people—men, women, beggars, thieves. Lance moved through them, adjusting the heavy bag on his back.

  Then, out of nowhere, something yanked him backward. His body lurched, his foot slipped, and he hit the ground hard.

  Pain shot through his spine. He gasped, twisting his head to see his bag caught on the edge of a moving cart.

  Shit.

  Heart hammering, he scrambled up and yanked the bag free. But the moment he opened it, dread sank deep into his gut.

  The gss inside was shattered. The wine soaked through the fabric, the scent thick in the air.

  Lance’s body went hot with rage. He turned to the cart driver, a broad-shouldered man sitting zily atop his seat, reins in hand.

  “You blind or just stupid?” Lance snapped, holding up the ruined bag. “Look what you did!”

  The man barely gnced at him. “Not my problem, kid,” he muttered, tugging the reins.

  Lance’s fists clenched. “Not your—? You plowed through without looking! You wrecked it, you pay for it.”

  The man sighed, exasperated. “You’re in the damn street. Should’ve moved.”

  Lance stepped forward. “You gonna pay or not?”

  The man’s lip curled. “Looks like you don’t know your pce.” He whistled.

  Two men stepped out from the side, rough-looking, mean. One cracked his knuckles. The other twirled a wooden club.

  Lance’s gut twisted.

  “You don’t mouth off to people bigger than you,” the cart driver sneered.

  Lance barely had time to react before the first punch smashed into his ribs. Pain exploded through his side. He staggered back, but another fist smmed into his stomach.

  Air ripped from his lungs.

  He tried to steady himself, but a boot crashed into his chest, sending him sprawling onto the mud.

  He gasped, pain wracking his body. His fingers dug into the dirt, but hands grabbed his arms, pinning him down.

  The driver stepped forward, raising his foot.

  Lance’s eyes widened in panic.

  Then— crack.

  A scream tore from his throat as fire shot through his left arm. His vision blurred. His breath came in ragged gasps, pain cing every movement.

  Laughter. Fading footsteps.

  Then silence.

  Lance y there, blood trailing from his bitten lips, his face wet with silent tears.

  Above him, the night stretched, vast and empty. The mps flickered, their weak glow swallowed by the dark.

  It took everything in him to rise.

  He staggered to the soldier’s home, his broken arm hanging useless at his side.

  The door creaked open. The man inside frowned at Lance’s bloodied face and torn clothes.

  “The hell happened to you?”

  Lance swallowed. “The bottle… broke.”

  The soldier’s frown deepened. “And the money?”

  Lance lowered his head. “I don’t… I don’t have it.”

  The man exhaled sharply. “So I’m out a bottle and my coin?”

  Lance bit the inside of his cheek. “I—I’m sorry.”

  The soldier scoffed. “Sorry doesn’t get my money back.”

  Lance looked down, silent.

  The soldier crossed his arms. “You better figure out a way to pay me back, kid. You think I’m just gonna let this slide?”

  Lance didn’t answer.

  The man sneered. “Pathetic.”

  He smmed the door shut.

  Lance stood there, trembling, his broken arm pulsing with pain.

  He turned away, back to home.