The pad was tight but cozy. Futons and flickering holo-discs were stacked beside crates of stolen goods. She brushed a hand across one of the containers and crouched to inspect the contents.
“Damn. Still not enough for the old fool.”
She gave the crate a sharp kick, sending a cluster of off-brand chips and relic parts rattling.
That’s when she heard it.
A whistle—slow, deliberate—echoed through the thin walls.It wasn’t coming from outside.It was already inside.
Nyx froze. Her shoulders tensed.
“Just my luck,” she muttered, shoving the cabinet aside with mounting urgency.
The figure moved down the hall with unnatural grace, his outline flickering at the edges—like a corrupted feed struggling to hold form. He didn’t walk so much as slip forward, each step too smooth, too precise.
From his arm swung a black cane, its polished wood whispering against the walls. A blood-red pommel caught the filtered light bleeding through the boarded windows of Nyx’s tenement.It glinted like an eye.
Nyx’s breath hitched.
She knew that whistle.
And worse—she knew that cane.
“My dear pet,” he purred, bowing low as he stepped inside. “You really must do something about this place.”
Nyx stood stiff as he placed his raven-colored gloves into her hands—like she was a maid, not a mark.
His body jittered slightly at the shoulders—a Nonkin tell—but otherwise, he moved with all the affectation of a highborn lord. A mask. A perfect imitation of someone long dead.
He straightened with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
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“Now then…”He twirled his cane once, the red pommel slicing through the air with a whistle.“How goes your procurement? The tasks I’ve entrusted you with?”
His tone turned—soft silk folding into razors.
He clicked his tongue as he scanned the room, his yellowed eyes twitching in different directions—one organic, the other glass and too still. His face held the image of blueblood at first glance, but a second look betrayed the ghost.
No longer human.
His Caith ears were torn and uneven, the fur along his jawline patchy with graft scars. The tailored black coat he wore clung to him like oil, stitched tight over shoulders that weren’t quite symmetrical.
Still whistling, he lowered himself onto one of her crates with a practiced flourish, dust pluming as he crossed one leg over the other.He tapped his cane against the side of the box, letting the rhythm fill the silence.
“Your inventory is... uninspiring,” he said finally, voice tight with amusement.“I expected better from you. A little more effort. A little less... dust.”
His fingers drummed on the pommel.
“You know the debt you owe. You want out of this city, don’t you? And yet, your little ‘liberations’ barely scrape the quota.”
He leaned forward, smile widening like a crack in porcelain.
“Do remind me what happens to those who break contract with the man downstairs.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Nyx said, voice dry. “But you ask for a lot. Besides, I’ve done more than just grabbing trinkets. I’ve roped that poor boy into your little delusions of grandeur.”
She plucked a chip from the crate, spinning it lazily between her fingers.Beneath her cool exterior, her pulse drummed against her ribs.
The Imposter gave a soft laugh—low, humorless.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that boy.”
He stepped closer, his cane tapping once against the floor.
“His family... are just some old friends of mine.”
That smile again.Too wide. Too white.
He turned, strolling toward the door, the whistle returning as he passed by her.
“I expect results soon,” he said over his shoulder.“Or I’ll let the magistrate’s dogs sniff out our little kitten. And you know how much they love to chew.”
“Or worse,” Nyx muttered under her breath, “your benefactor will rise up from hell and catch us both.”
The door creaked open. For just a moment, the red gleam of his cane lingered in the dark like an ember.
Then he was gone.
Nyx stared at the door long after it shut.The hallway echoed with silence, but the stench of grease and cheap cologne clung to the air like mold.
She let out a long breath and dropped onto the futon, rubbing her temples.The city was pressing in from all sides—walls, contracts, ghosts in noble skin.
She leaned forward, tapped the holo-deck beside her bed, and pulled up the encrypted folder she’d stolen on her last run.Blue light flickered across her face.
The file’s title read:
SUBJECT 001: THE FAT MAN
Alias: First King of the Court
Her mouth went dry.
“…What the hell did you drag me into…”
way bigger than she bargained for.